


The Trick To Falling

by evanines



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, I will add more tags as i update this, I'm not formatting pesterlog style text because it's less accessible to read on ao3, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Emotional Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Journalism, Karkat Needs a Hug, M/M, Meet-Cute, Multi, Trans Karkat Vantas, Trans Male Character, acrobats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18516607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanines/pseuds/evanines
Summary: "If you brace for the impact, you lose. You break something, you get whiplash, who knows. Point is, you need to accept it. That you've lost your grip, that you're slipping and you're going to hit that net and you can't do shit about it. It's like... when you're walking, that's just falling, right? You've gotten so used to that forward momentum that you know exactly how to catch yourself and keep moving. You don't get caught up on one step and trip on your face. That's the trick. You need to accept the fall, ride it out."Dave Strider is a photography student who recently was accepted for an internship at a prominent newspaper, along with his sister Rose, an aspiring investigative journalist. They're both assigned to look into a circus that's based in Houston and, despite many attempts from the press, remains ambiguous. However, Dave finds himself pulled towards a surly aerialist with a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Everest, and begins to see through the glamorous facade of life in a circus.





	1. And the Ground Has Been Slowly Pulling Us Back Down

**Author's Note:**

> “I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you can see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.”  
> -Kurt Vonnegut
> 
> Chapter title from Two Slow Dancers by Mitski

As you tighten your core to swing your legs over your head for the third time, you feel your hands slip from the bar, releasing your grip on the metal in a cloud of chalk that’s tinged with shame and the rusty scarlet of dried blood. _FUCK._ You fall like a sack of bricks, and after a beat, you hit the net, bouncing back with all the grace of a newborn baby horse trying to sprint after someone took a baseball bat to its knees and blindfolded it.

 

“Karkat!” The tiny girl on the platform a good 15 feet above you shrieks down, her shrill voice piercing through the dusty air “are you okay?”

 

She’s probably only 4’10, you’ve never been good with guessing numbers, all you really know is she's about the only person you’ve ever met that’s shorter than you and also not currently enrolled in the third grade, but the sheer volume of hair on top of her head evens out the score quite a bit. She waves at you a bit, in an ‘earth to Karkat’ gesture and you realize you haven’t responded. Great, now she probably thinks you have a fucking concussion or some shit, even though your head never hit the ground, and honestly you should be past that at this point, you’re not even sure why you slipped that time, what a dumbass move… oh shit. You _still_ haven’t answered.

 

“I’m fine, Nepeta,” you say, biting your tongue to avoid snapping at her, “but CLEARLY I can’t fucking get this goddamn easy maneuver. All these stressed out white soccer moms named Tanya or Shiffany or what-fucking-EVER are gonna bring their little sticky monster children here to see the pretty animals and the acrobats and I’m just gonna fall on my ass and maybe traumatize some kids because newsflash, tiny asshole, gravity exists and this fucking shitbag can’t get his fucking act together and pull off a simple side planche to a goddamn…” well, you just miserably failed step one: don’t take out your temper on the fourteen year old.

 

“Aww it’s okay!” The kid slinks down the ladder, somehow graceful and effortless despite the unwieldy duster she wears even over her practice leotard. There’s a smudge of chalk, ash against her deep brown skin, and you feel the strangest instinct to lick your thumb and wipe it off. What the fuck.

 

“It really fucking isn’t though! God, I’m fucking lucky Vriska wasn’t here to see that. She’s gonna fucking slaughter me for something like that.”

 

“She’s not though, and neither am I!”

 

You remain silent. You don’t want to bite the kid’s head off, and if you open your stupid fucking mouth one more time, you might do just that.

 

“You know what _I_ think, Karkitty?” God, that fucking nickname.

“What.” It’s… pretty obvious you’re still angry, but you’re trying to tone it down for Nepeta’s sake.

 

“You’re almost out of time anyways-- someone else needs the space next! So we should go hang out so YOU can calm down and I can go get food!”

 

“ _Listen,_ Nepeta, I--” she puts a hand over your mouth.

 

“Hmm, nah! Not gonna listen to mister grumpy-pants!”

 

Looks like you’re officially condemned to hang out time with a fourteen year old furry. Just fucking great.

 

She practically sprints outside, stopping to cartwheel a couple times. You’ll never fucking understand this kid.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Approved interview list? Ma’am, unless you’re actively attempting to conceal something from the press, there’s no other reason to limit who I can and cannot talk to!” Rose Lalonde stiffens, trying to match heights with the woman locking eyes with her.

 

“Sorry, hon. We run a very tight ship around here. I wouldn’t want someone to come around and try to defame us, now would I?”

 

“I am within my rights to tell the truth to the public. If you--”

 

“Woah, now girlie,” the tall woman says in a nasal Jersey accent, twirling one of her French braids around her finger and looking down at your sister with a sparkle of condescension in her eyes, “last I hear, you were an intern. Leave the muckraking to the grown-ups who get paid.”

 

Rose’s jaw clenches, and you can see her grinding the heel of her black velvet boots into the dirt.

 

“Of course, Miss Piexes. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.” She gives a simpering grin that from your angle looks more like a grimace, and turns to walk away, grabbing your jacket by the elbow and towing you along with her.

 

She stops behind a beat-up Ford pickup truck, the original color of the paint completely obscured by an opaque and impressive layer of grime and dust. You think maybe it was blue, at some point. There’s handprints in the dirt on the windows, and someone’s written “K + N” in a cutesy cursive with their fingers. There’s other graffitti, too, and it looks so interesting you subconsciously reach for your camera. That’s when you remember that your sister and partner for these articles is currently holding your arm hostage.

 

“What the fuck, Rose.” You turn to look at her and yank your arm out of her hand. “Hands off the merchandise, how am I ever going to get famous for my photography and win a pulitzer for a picture of some monkey in Indonesia if you yank off my goddamn arm? You’d be doing the journalistic world a huge disservice, depriving them of all this--”

 

“Dave, my dear brother, _shut the fuck up._ ”

 

“..Alrighty. Gonna clue me in as to why we’re currently hiding behind what’s apparently the first pickup truck ever created? Geez, this thing hasn’t been washed since people thought clowns were a good idea to have around children,” you ramble, trying to distract your sister from her innate desire to go back and lecture the woman who owns this place about integrity and the rights of journalists. Honestly, if this is sketchy enough to make her give you an interview restriction, you’re both incredibly lucky you didn’t have to sign an NDA.

 

“I just would like to give some thought to who on this… _list_ … would actually provide some semblance of a good interview.”

 

You lean over her, angling the paper in her hands in order to grab a look at the typed list of names. Damn… that’s a pretty fucking small list.

 

“This circus has over 300 staff and performers, and we get. Twelve. Measly. Interviews.” Rose says through gritted teeth, hissing the words under her breath as if she’s still paranoid someone will take even that from her.

 

“Listen, Rose, we’ll make it work. You’re like… kinda good at this even if you think you’re some kind of internationally acclaimed investigative journalist, and not a college student doing this for exactly zero american dollars.”

 

“I’d prefer if we didn’t focus on monetary attachment to this undertaking as a measure of significance, and instead realize the _opportunity_ for a breakthrough. The only incentive that the Peixes family would have for restricting my journalistic freedom is if they are attempting to cloak something unscrupulous. Therefore, it is really my duty to uncover what is at hand here, if you look at it a certain way, Dave. Oh, that’s… unfortunate.”

 

Rose looks down at her feet, and realizes that she’s been grinding the toe of her oxford into the dirt like the front of her vintage, velvet Dr. Marten shoes are a horny teenage boy and the well-trodden dirt of the fairground is an unsuspecting cheerleader-- furiously and indelicately.

 

“Damn. Those were expensive.”

 

She’s dressed wholly inappropriately for a circus outing, the shoes you mentioned before only accentuating an outfit that wouldn’t blend in outside… you really can’t think of a venue that would be populated exclusively with people who share a fashion sense with your sister. Some goth-ballad style concert, if you had to wager a guess. The type of music that people who wear Edwardian walking skirts with a vintage Hermes scarf and a denim jacket would listen to, probably. A cafe where college students talk about their favorite, most pretentious pieces of postmodern literature? Rose is more of a ‘cosmic, existential dread horror’ kind of gal though...

 

Your train of thought is caught away from an exploration of the aesthetics of your sororal counterpart, and towards the biggest thing in your line of sight-- a giant tent about thirty feet away from you. Never one to deprive your subconscious of acting on an impulse, you turn and move for the door.

 

“C’mon Rose, let’s go see if there’s anyone in here we can start with.”

 

You don’t even bother to check if she’s following you. You’re a man on a tangent and nothing will get in the way of inspecting the muffled cursing you can hear from beyond the canvas walls, like music to your ears. Screechy, dissonant music, like someone with no concept of theory decided to just throw whatever half-steps in that they could, without thinking about the key signature at _all._ An auditory crime really, but damn if the sound of a creative utilization of some of the most foul words the English language has to offer doesn’t peak your interest.

 

You burst through the entrance of the tent that you haven’t identified the purpose of with a thud and a crack, then promptly land on your ass in the dirt. What the fuck?

 

“Hey dipshit! Ever thought about watching where you’re going? Or did they teach you in ‘Press Pass 101’ to ignore that in favor of filling up your dumbfuck head with so much self-importance that no one else exists and you’re just bowling over everyone in your path because where you need to go is so much more crucial than every-fucking-body else?”

 

You’re too dazed to answer for a second, the cloudiness in your head not injury, but shock at finding yourself with your ass suddenly in the dirt in-- where are you, anyways? You still haven’t figured out what this space is. The ceiling is ridiculously high, with golden sunlight filtering through the gaps and mixing with the dust in the air. There’s a network of ropes and swings and some shit that looks like hula hoops hanging from the metal beams, and you surmise it’s where the acrobats do their thing. Huh. You guess that’s what this guy is then-- an acrobat. As you realize this, you also realize that he’s _still yelling at you._

 

“HEY! Did that fucking hair bleach kill off your brain cells too, fucknuts?”

 

The voice berating you is hoarse, not in a ‘my name’s Janice and I smoke three packs a day” way, but a gravelly bass, like it’s been pushed to the edge one too many times, and now it’s permanently rough.

 

You look up at him.

 

_Holy shit he’s pretty._

 

That’s… not exactly a word you should use for a guy, or that most people would, anyways. But fuck if it’s not a perfect way to describe _this_ guy.

 

The first thing you notice is his height. He’s _tiny_ , probably barely over 5’5, but the tank top he’s wearing reveals toned arms and muscular shoulders. _Damn._ You’re pretty sure that tight clothes are a requirement for acrobatic practice, but even if they weren't you’re thankful he chose to wear the leggings he did because _shit._

 

He has curly hair that just touches his ears, warm brown skin that’s accentuated by the flush of his cheeks as he glares down at you, and the most gorgeous gray eyes you’ve ever seen on anyone. There’s a hint of pink to them, a sunrise blanketed by storm clouds.

 

Shit. You should probably say something.

 

“Hi?”

 

You manage to stutter out the monosyllabic greeting and not much else, standing up clumsily and brushing the dirt that’s adhered itself to your jeans. Great, now you have to wash these and you were barely into a week of wearing them…

 

“Thats utterly disgusting, fuckwad.”

 

Oh shit, you said that out loud. Now the cute angry boy thinks you’re gross… way to go, Dave.

 

You should probably say something about how you just collided with him because you totally weren’t looking where you were going. The guy _was_ right, but did he really have to yell like that? He must be real fun to hang around with, at any given moment he’d just pop off and start shouting about nothing whatsoever.

 

Honestly though? He was adorable when he yelled at you…

 

“Yo, dude, not my fault that you don’t understand my genius. Really, if you think about it, I’m saving time and money-- I dont have to buy as many pants, and I’d save money on water if I didn’t live in a college dorm.”

 

“I don’t have time to chat about your gross laundry habits, dicksniffer. I just want you out of my way. An apology would be nice too, fucker.”

 

“Ever thought about chilling out a little, dude?”

 

He glares at you like it’s the default setting for his face. Maybe it is.

 

“Cool. I’m Dave, by the way.”

 

He opens his mouth with such acerbic force you physically brace for the barrage of verbal abuses to be flung at you, but before he can say anything, a girl, who must have been standing there the whole time, fucking _body checks_ him out of the way, with a violent “shh!” and stands at attention in front of you.

 

“Hello! I’m sorry about my friend… he’s an asshole! I’m not though!”

 

Your first instinct is to tell her to watch the language. You, a precocious user of foul language. That’s how young this kid looks. You’d assume-- or hope at least, who even knows what kinda fucked up shit is going on here-- that she’s at least over whatever the legal limit is for throwing yourself off a trapeze for minimum wage. She _looks_ ten though.

 

She’s even shorter than the pretty boy-- whose name you still haven’t gotten-- which is impressive. How many short people are in this fucking tent? Is it like, a requirement to be short if you want to swing from metal bars for a living?

 

“Um. Hey.”

 

“Oh no! Are you okay? Karkat, did you hurt him?!” she whips around to face Pretty Boy-- Karkat, you guess. At least you can stop calling him Pretty Boy.

 

“I’m fine, dude. Just wasn’t looking where I was going, I guess. It’s chill, I’m super chill. Subzero. I’m a researcher in Antarctica, and all I have for company is these chill ass penguins and some glaciers. Incredibly chill.”

 

“Do you _ever_ shut up? Please, for apparently the first time in your life, stop talking, asshole.”

 

Well, he’s only left you with one choice-- keep talking.

 

“Sorry dude this bus can’t go any slower. I’m just captive to it, just chillin while my brain spews a bunch of shit out my mouth, and only Keanu Reeves can save me-”

 

“ _Speed_? Are you fucking serious?”

 

You’re a little impressed that he got the reference-- he actually seems kinda cool. And then you realize that while you were cataloguing the way his wide nose scrunched up when he glared at you and his remarkably soft looking lips pressed against each other as he bit back yet another pejorative, the passage of time had occurred, in the manner it usually does-- for you, linear yet sporadic, but for your sister, who is currently waiting behind you and pointedly checking the time on her phone, consistently, with no leeway for pretty acrobats and wasting fifteen minutes antagonizing them.

 

Before you’re given the chance to spit the barrage of verbal garbage racing through your head out into the air, the tiny girl speaks over you again. She’s standing with the composure and posture of a prima ballerina, as if the laws of gravity don’t exactly apply to her-- she carries herself with the delicate grace of a dandelion seed before it’s blown off the flower; tethered to the earth, yes, but only slightly, as if at any moment, with the slightest inclination, she could float away.

 

The dandelion effect is in no way reduced by her appearance. She has gorgeous, curly hair that falls just to her shoulders, forming a gentle halo around her smiling face, but that’s the biggest part of her, you’d reckon. She’s a wisp of a girl, swallowed up by an army green duster coat that she’s wearing over a simple black leotard.

 

And she looks you in the shades and asks if you want to join her and the boy who just screamed at you for fifteen minutes over inconsequential bullshit for lunch.

 

You say yes. Obviously.


	2. Don't Call Me Stupid, That Ain't the Way My Name Pronounced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "True friends stab you in the front." -Oscar Wilde  
> Karkat thinks Dave is infuriating, maddeningly sarcastic, and adorable. Wait, no. Definitely not that last one. Of course not. Why would he be attracted to this asshole in the sunglasses with the pretty face?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karkat tries really, incredibly hard to deny the fact that he thinks Dave is cute, because he's a dumbass.  
> Basically the second half of the meet-cute that's the premise of this fic.

 

“Yeah but, dude, can you even imagine having to go on that many dates with Adam Sandler? Like, hes Adam Sandler-- the human equivalent of the generic corn flakes your mom gets from the cheap grocery store that taste like cardboard-- no difference from the brand name ones there, though-- and are just, the most boring food item the human mind could possibly conceive of? Adam Sandler is to humanity what those cornflakes are to cereal.”

First, this shades-wearing douchebag runs into you like you’re invisible. Secondly, he intrudes on your lunch with your friend-- yes, Nepeta invited him, and yes you didn’t really want to go in the first place but it’s the _principle_ of the thing. And now he’s insulting one of your favorite movies? Yes, you admit… you also think Adam Sandler is the whitest, most generic man that could exist-- like if a team of scientists assembled to find the median white man, he’s just so completely nondescript.

 

Shades Douche-- Dave-- continues.

 

“He looks like both his first and last names are Brad. There’s a pocket dimension that’s just an eternal cookout, populated exclusively by clones of Adam Sandler, all holding a Corona Light and calling you “duuude”, while offering you a dry, under-seasoned burger he grilled. God, Karkat, I can see it now. It’s all so vivid. He’s calling me ‘sport’. There’s no escaping Adam.”

 

You try really, _really_ hard not to snicker. You’d like to say that you didn’t let him or his dumbass spiel get to you. You know what Kanaya would say. Yes, he’s attractive. Not that you’re _attracted_ to him, geez. Just… from an objective standpoint! Bleach blond dreads and high cheekbones. The motherfucker even has _freckles_! He’s built like a twink, but you figure you’ve probably got more upper body strength in one hand than he’s got in his whole body. Which is irrelevant. It’s fine, and it means nothing to you. Obviously.

 

He’s wearing like six layers too. A flannel shirt under a hoodie under a jean jacket. There’s a camera around his neck, and he’s got a backpack that you assume is carrying more photography equipment. So he’s probably the photographer and the girl is the… reporter? It really shouldn’t matter anyways. Journalists have come before with the intent of uncovering something shitty, and the Peixes family that owns the place have shut them down time and time again. Which you should honestly be thankful for, it’s not like someone of your severely nonexistent talents would be able to get a job anywhere else, anyways.

 

You bicker back and forth for the rest of the short walk to where the performers and employees get their food. A rather beat-up looking food truck, a short line waiting by it. The cook is a tall man who, seeing you, waves and smiles, gesturing in a ‘just a minute’ way and inviting you to get in line.

 

“So, is this where y’all eat?” Dave asks, taking it in, and reaching for his camera. You swat his hand away before he can take any pictures.

 

“Yes, it is. And no, you can’t. We’re not animals, asshole. Ask if you’re gonna take a picture of someone. “

 

He actually looks sheepish. It would be easier to tell if he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, but he looks down at his Adidas and shuffles his feet in the grass for a second, trying not to look at you.

 

“Sorry, man, I didn’t think-”

 

“Just. We’re people and we’re all more than a little sick of being treated like entertainment, and not people. If you asked, a lot of the people here would say yes. We appreciate being seen like equals, not freaks.”  It comes out angrier than you mean. You know (or, at least, you think) that Dave isn’t gonna do the shit that other journalists-- hell, even just customers, have done. He doesn’t seem like the type to try and sneak into a dressing room, or talk over you like you’re not here. But still, repeated annoyances wear heavy against you and you tend to get defensive. Especially after last time, with Nepeta.

Breaking your train of thought is the man in the food truck slapping the butt end of his spatula against the wall to get your attention. You realize the line is gone, and you’re standing there scowling.

 

 _Hello, K_ he signs to you, and you sign back a similar greeting.

 

He turns around and busies himself for a minute, returning with four baskets of tacos for you, Dave, the other girl, and Nepeta. You and Nepeta hand him your meal cards, and you reach for cash to pay for Dave and his friend-- because you’re actually a nice person sometimes, dammit-- but the man holds his hands up and signs that it’s on the house.

 

Dave’s stomach audibly growls, and you shove one of the baskets into his chest, some lettuce falling out onto the ground. You and Nepeta lead the other two to one of the picnic tables around the truck, and sit down to eat.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced-- and I, on principle, never trust Dave to make a good or even adequate first impression. My name is Rose Lalonde, Dave’s sister. We’re here to do an article about this circus.”

 

You give her a look. She’s probably 19? You can’t tell exactly but, definitely not old enough to work for a major news outlet.

 

“As an intern?”

 

“Well, yes, but-”

 

“Great. Just try and retain some fucking boundaries alright?” She nods. “So, what does Dave do then?”

 

The other boy is far too busy shoving food in his face to notice he’s being discussed.

 

"Photography. Obviously.” She smirks, and you remember the conversation you had with Dave not five minutes ago, berating him for exactly that. “We’re both on an internship for the same paper, coincidentally. What did you say your name was again?”

 

“Uh, Karkat.”

 

“Vantas?” She asks.

 

“...Yes. How the fuck did _you_ know that?”

 

She’s got a piece of paper in front of her that looks like a list of some kind-- you can’t tell what it says exactly.

 

“The family who owns the circus-- I assume you’re familiar? They’ve limited me to twelve employees and performers whom I may interview, and you’re one of them.” Oh. You’re a little surprised that the Piexes’ felt the need to restrict a college intern like that, but who knows. They’re pretty paranoid, and for a good reason.

 

Looking at Rose, all you can think is of your best friend. She’s perfectly Kanaya’s type-- short blonde hair (what was the _deal_ with these two and hair bleach? Geez.) and the same high cheekbones as her brother. Who, you had to admit, was hot. Just, because it’s an observation that most people would have!

 

As you thought of Kanaya, as if summoned, your phone buzzes from the thigh pocket of your workout pants. You pull it out because you don’t give a fuck about looking rude in front of these two, and see a text from whom else but Kanaya.

 

**Karkat I Need You To Come Here It’s Urgent**

**I’m In The Costume Tent**

 

You sigh, and shoot her back a message.

 

**FINE. THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from SWEET by Brockhampton  
> Notes:  
> Sorry this chapter is shorter and worse-er  
> Remember how I said I didn't edit Chapter One? This one is edited even LESS than that.  
> If you want to one-up Jeff Bezos by taking some time out of your day to do a nice thing, you could leave me a comment, I'd appreciate it!


	3. We Will Never Know, but That's the Greatest Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She’s the picture of grace and beauty, and you understand now why angels tell humans ‘be not afraid’."  
> Rose has a lesbian crisis. Dave and Karkat play show-and-tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do not want to tell you what I know  
> But I do not know much  
> I don't ever want to put on a show  
> But I do it all so much"  
> -IDK, Willow Smith

When Karkat abruptly stands, blurting out, “I’ve gotta go,” your brother follows him like a puppy.

That’s how you ended up here, faced with the most colorful fabric that you’ve ever seen. The amount of glitter in this singular room probably accounts for at least half of the plastic in the ocean, and you can’t help but wonder what kind of masochist would willingly spend their time wearing it.

 

“Hello,” a soft voice greets the three of you-- the small girl, Nepeta, stayed behind, opting to finish her lunch instead of join you. Had the potential of Dave making an ass of himself in front of his new crush not been so deliciously preeminent, you may have done the same yourself.

 

A tall woman stands from where she had been hunched over a table, fiddling with a bolt of magenta silk. Although while sitting she was eclipsed by a nearby dress form-- draped stylishly with a sequined black fabric-- when standing, she towers over you by a good six inches.

 

The analytical thought processes you pride yourself on are utterly defenestrated the very minute you make eye contact with her.

 

She has rich brown skin that’s complemented perfectly by her green sweater-- you’ve never had an eye for design, but you appreciate the verdant shade for the way it brings out her similarly richly colored green eyes. Her hair is covered by a intricately wrapped navy headscarf, adorned with pearls in a way that frames her head like a halo. She’s the picture of grace and beauty, and you understand now why angels tell humans ‘be not afraid’, because if she asks you anything you’re not fully assured in your capabilities to respond.

 

And she turns to Karkat and says, “Bitch,” a slow smile making its way onto her face.

 

“What do you need, Kanaya,” the boy says, gritting his teeth together.

 

“I just wanted to show you what I’d done for Nepeta’s costume-- for the silks routine? I’d assumed she came with you, but clearly the tension in the air was just too much,” she says, running her eyes from Dave’s shoes to the top of his head. “Would you care to introduce me to your new… friends?”

 

Her eyes move to you again, and you can _feel_ her giving you the same once-over that she gave your brother, eyeing your clothing with a look of appraisal, assessing you through thoughtful jade eyes.

 

“Is that Hermѐs?” she questions. You realize she’s been looking at your scarf, which is indeed that. And she’s asked you a question-- and she’s expecting a response, a coherent one at that, which is literally the nightmare scenario for what your eloquent brother would call “your gay ass”.

 

“Um, yes. I mean, yes it is, I don’t know why I needed a second to ascertain the truth of that statement. I… well, yes. The answer is yes.” Goddamnit, could you be any more embarrassing?

 

“And, um.. I’m Rose Lalonde.” Apparently, the answer to your question is, yes, you can

She chuckles, and turns towards Karkat yet again.

 

“Well, Karkat, would you like to see?” Oh, right. The costume she wanted to show Karkat. Actually, while you’re here…

 

You turn to Dave and hold up your hands, miming taking a picture. He rolls his eyes at you and clears his throat.

 

“Hey, Kanaya, was it?” She looks at him and nods, “Would it be cool if I took some pictures of your uh...workshop? Studio? For the newspaper? It’s really colorful and it would make for a really good picture or two, like over there with the…” he trails off when you give him a sharp look to stop before he gives her a photography lecture.

 

“Yes, Dave, that would be quite alright. Now, Karkat, if you’ll follow me,” Kanaya says, and Karkat, shockingly, listens and stays silent. You’re not one to formulate a snap judgement on someone based off little over an hour of knowing them, but it does seem uncharacteristic to you for Karkat not to argue, especially after witnessing the sheer level of argumentation between him and your brother.

 

She walks back to the table she’d occupied before you entered, and unfolds a silky, yellow fabric leotard. There’s intricate golden beading that wraps around the bodice, and the high neckline and long sleeves are trimmed with the same golden crystals. Although you aren’t the most proficient at sewing or fashion, you can appreciate the detailed stitchwork.

 

She tells Karkat something about coming in for a fitting before she dies of old age.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Not like I have _anything_ better to do ever at all, right? No, why would I, obviously I exist at the beck and call of bitches who stab me with pins!”

 

She smiles again, serene and slow, and addresses you once more.

 

“Well, Rose, it was lovely to meet you. I really adore your style, perhaps you would let me make you a piece or two sometime, and we could get to know each other a bit better?”

 

You’re absolutely positive you’re going to pass out if she winks at you ever again.

 

\------------------------------------------

In the golden afternoon light, the silver sequins become an iridescent kaleidoscope of shimmer, that you focus on as you frame the rack of fabrics in your viewfinder. The colours in the workshop are surrounded by a sweet smell of vanilla, intermingling with dust, and the potential for a good picture is worth the fifteen minute walk under the oppressive heat of Houston in June. Karkat just all of a sudden had said he had to go, and you instinctively followed him, because you’re a good journalist, damnit. And maybe because he’s kind of cute and a lot of fun to rile up.

 

Karkat, Rose, and Kanaya talk about costumes or some other shit and your sister drools over the seamstress the whole time. It’s pretty funny.

 

Karkat asks you if you want to dip and find somewhere less filled with unresolved lesbianism and sexual tension that involves your _sister_ , for crying out loud, and you end up back where you began, on the dirt floor of the big, ambiguous ‘practice space’, which is all you’ve been clued into as to the purpose of the giant tent with all the nets. Whatever, that’s Rose’s job to know anyways, you just take pictures of pretty shit. Or ugly shit, whatever she needs to prove the point of her crusade du jour.

 

“Do you like journalism?” Karkat asks you, his face betraying genuine curiosity. You like that about him, he wears his heart on a fucking billboard for the whole world to see.

 

“I mean, I guess. It’s not my major or anything, but I like feeling like I’m doing something. You know, instead of just taking pictures-- like I have a goal in mind, and then it can help people. But I do like just taking pictures of stuff that looks cool,” you ramble, trying to articulate your attachment to the art.

 

“Why do you do this,” you blurt out, gesturing all around you to the equipment, “if it’s so dangerous? Like don’t people die and shit?” After you ask it you realize how insensitive it could be, and you hope he doesn’t get mad.

 

But, no-- the corners of his mouth twitch upwards slightly, your question bemusing the small acrobat. Seeing him smile makes you feel warm and happy, like there’s a sunrise in the pit of your stomach, warming you from inside, and you almost want to drop your carefully maintained deadpan. Almost. 

 

“Yes, it’s dangerous. Only a dumbass is going to say its not. Ironically, believing it isn’t is exactly how you get hurt-- you get careless, do dumb shit, make stupid mistakes,” he says, frowning and looking up at the ceiling. “But it’s the danger that gives you respect for it. You learn how to fall, again and again, and you figure out the patterns, and you stop falling. And you give the universe a big middle finger for saying humans couldn’t fly. So, maybe it’s spite-- my reason for doing it. Maybe I just feel like saying fuck it and making something at least semi-okay out of the danger. Who fucking knows.”

 

Fuck. You’re not sure how to respond to that, until he rolls his eyes and says, “My turn.”

 

Guess you inadvertently signed the twenty questions contract, and Karkat is the demon you sold your soul to, enforcing it. You wonder how he’d look with horns. Then he looks at you, but not at your eyes, and asks a question like he’s afraid of how you’ll react to it.

 

“So, why do you wear the sunglasses?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is also from IDK by Willow.  
> Notes:  
> We're really close to getting into some actual plot! These boys are so unbelievably gay its ridiculous  
> Stream ghettobaby by Kevin Abstract if you're looking for some good gay music.  
> I promise there will be more Rosemary later-- let me know if you want a bonus fic of just them from this AU cause I have Ideas for some cute ass lesbian ish.  
> This should have been up yesterday, but we went out of town for Passover, sorry for the wait. Pour one out for my homies and my consistent writing schedule and for Elijah :pensive:  
> As always, tell me if i've made any particularly heinous grammar mistakes please


	4. im a fucking walking paradox/ no im not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat and Dave get to know each other better. Karkat finds some of Dave's pictures, as well as some unsettling news about Dave and his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is a moment in every photograph's life when it has been exposed but not developed. The light from the enlarger has shone through the negative and made its impression on the paper, but without the magic of developer, the paper will stay white and no one will ever see what that impression is.”  
> -A.S King

You fucked up.

 

Why do you always fuck everything up?

 

You asked a dumb question, that you _thought_ was innocuous. But as soon as you asked him about the glasses, Dave stiffened and gave a noncommittal, vague answer about his cool guy image or some shit and stopped talking for five minutes until Rose texted him and gave him an excuse to leave.

 

And now you’re dealing with it the way you deal with anything bad-- by jumping off of something very tall.

 

You inhale, feeling your lungs expand and your chest rise, and tighten your hands on the bar you’re holding. On the exhale, you lean forward, letting gravity overtake you, and you fall.  There’s the same tug in your stomach as there always is as you drop, and your other thoughts melt away as you focus on the task that demands your attention.

 

As you reach the highest point of the swing, you use the momentum to somersault, letting go of the bar and allowing yourself to hit the net, preparing for the impact as the wires and swings around you become a blur and the outside world melts away.

 

You stand, wincing at the soreness in your legs. You didn’t really adhere to your routine today, you really shouldn’t be doing this so soon after the tough practice session with Nepeta you had this morning, But it’s vastly preferable to just sitting and feeling miserable about how you’re destined to fuck up every friendship you even try to make.

 

Take a deep breath, roll your shoulders back and appreciate the feeling of the stretch, and focus. You give yourself orders, sticking to a distinct methodology of living that represses the dumb shit you think. It’s not important.

 

With this in your mind, you walk over to where your water bottle and gym bag are. Your poor bag has been sitting there since this morning, and still has a dent from where Dave was leaning up against it-- although that doesn’t even make top ten in the list of abuses done to it, clearly visible by the fading of the blue fabric and the several rips on it that have been stitched up by Kanaya, who begs you to just buy a new bag.

 

You reach inside for a t-shirt; your tank top being almost completely soaked in sweat and generally nasty, and the setting sun putting a chill into the air, and you pull out a shirt and a slip of paper. What the fuck?

 

It’s a business card, professionally printed with a name that’s scratched out and a crude penis drawn over the text. There’s an arrow that indicates to you that you should turn it over, and you comply.

 

In a small, neat handwriting is a phone number and a note.

 

_karkat-_

_thought maybe we could hang out sometime? just shoot me a text i guess_

_-dave_

 

You know Kanaya would murder you and hide your body where no one would find it if you never texted him, so you suck it up and send a message to the number he gave you.

 

**HEY. ITS KARKAT.**

 

\---------------------------------------

 

You’re laying on your bed, messing around on your computer when your phone beeps from your desk.

 

You really don’t feel the spirit move you to move even a fraction of an inch, in all honesty. But you push your Mac off your lap and roll off the bed.

 

Sock-covered feet pad gently against the linoleum floor, as you expertly dodge the piles of laundry and other junk that litters your half of the room. There’s a distinct line of demarcation between your side of the room and that of your roommate-- the piles of clothes, food wrappers, and the occasional book all stop at the median floorboard between your shitty, uncomfortable twin bed and John’s shitty, uncomfortable twin bed.

 

You glance at your phone and see a text from a number you don’t recognize. It’s Karkat, from the circus. Why the fuck is he typing in all caps? It does reflect his personality, though, you guess.

 

**hey dude**

**whats up couldnt get enough of me huh**

He responds to you almost instantly

 

**Pretty Boy: ASSHOLE. I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE THAT WE WERE COOL.**

 

What? Why wouldn’t you be?

 

Then you remember how you probably shut down after he asked about your glasses, as you tend to do. Classic fucking Strider, better to alienate someone who likes you than to be vulnerable. Shit, you sound like your sister, trying to psychoanalyze yourself.

 

**nah bro were chill**

**remember what i said about those penguins and shit**

 

**Pretty Boy: DO YOU EVER TALK ABOUT SOMETHING THAT MAKES SENSE OR IS THAT TOO ADVANCED FOR YOU TO COMPREHEND?**

**Pretty Boy: BUT I’M GLAD WE’RE COOL. I WAS WORRIED**

 

**you dont have to worry im always chill**

**you on the other hand…**

 

**Pretty Boy: ):B RUDE**

 

You text back and forth about a bunch of meaningless shit. Filling the void gouged by awkward questions spoken too soon with jokes and arguments, until it gets late and you remember all the homework you were supposed to do. Shit.

 

**gtg**

**sorry**

**gn**

 

You turn your phone off before you see his reply, and have trouble convincing yourself to suppress the smile on your lips.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Why can't you sleep? Every time you close your eyes, you just feel your brain fill up with thoughts like a pot of water boiling over, everything bubbling out with a hiss and making a mess everywhere. There’s a lamp on the table by your bed, casting a warm, yellow light over your room, illuminating the movie posters on the walls and pulling strange shadows onto Anne Hathaway’s face, making her look sinister.

 

Dave stopped texting you, leaving questions swimming through your head about the deadpan photographer.

 

Why are you so caught up with him? You keep thinking about his hair and his lips and his nose, and feeling stupidly happy. You’re nostalgic for something you’ve never had and never will. You want to retch up the delicate feelings that are piercing you from inside, somewhere below your lungs, hurting like you’ve swallowed shards of glass but making you feel blissful at the same time.

 

And you’re still so goddamned _curious_. His persona lends to that, the characteristically dry irony and refusal to face anything head on without a shield of black-tinted glass between him and the world, let alone talk about his feelings, almost invites questioning.

 

The only way you can think of to satisfy your curiosity in a benign, non-intrusive way is to see more of his work. He showed you the pictures he took of Kanaya’s studio and they were stunning, and you honestly just want to see more gorgeous pictures.

 

His name was on the card he’d given you-- ironically, it was his own business card and the graffiti had been wholly unnecessary. Dave Strider. The last name suited him. A laid back walk that in a way was urgent, pressing against time or another force to get somewhere, but not revealing it to anyone who happened to be watching.

 

You search his name, hoping you’d find a website or something.

 

And you do. The first Google result, when you click on the link, takes you to a slightly classed-up Tumblr page under his name, and you see some of his pictures.

 

Each one is slightly different, but they all have the same vivid colors and almost surreal undertone. The darks are slightly darker and the brights are almost more colorful than in real life.

 

One in particular catches your eye. It’s a crow, a bigass bird with dark feathers reflecting a neon oil slick, on a phone wire. Looking closer, though, you realize the bird is dead. It’s stiff, and its’ wings are open, but it’s eerily posed, in a way that looks like the picture was captured as the corvid experienced its’ final moments. The sky behind it is blood red, the clouds menacing as they leer from the background, and the whole image leaves you unsettled.

 

_Max Black,_ Dave’s titled it. You wonder what that means.

 

You see some more pictures of dead animals-- weird but also captivating, like a trainwreck you can’t look away from. It feels almost voyeuristic, looking at them, like you’re intruding on something raw and personal.

 

There’s a picture of a girl with a cotton candy pink afro, who looks like Rose and, to a lesser extent, Dave. She’s wearing heart-shaped sunglasses that are a deeper, almost magenta, and the picture as a whole is overwhelmingly pink. She’s looking straight at the camera, but almost through it, piercing fuschia eyes going beyond the viewer and making you want to instinctively look behind you. There’s a grin on her face, saccharine and serene but combined with her eyes, it’s a generally unsettling experience. The title is no less confusing, _The lingering existentiality of your own family._ Is that his sister? Cousin?

 

You wonder if there’s any more, or if you can find an Instagram account for him, and go back to the Google results page, and it doesn’t take you long to find an article that contained the same last name. It’s horrifying.

 

The picture that it leads with is that of a boy, about fifteen years old with blood running down his face and bruises staining almost his whole body. He’s wearing a t-shirt that’s far too big for him and standing defensively, holding a fucking _sword._ He looks like Dave, but the factor that really makes the connection for you are the sunglasses he's wearing. 

 

The title of the article is no better. “Ex-MMA Fighter Convicted On Multiple Child Abuse Charges.”

 

There’s a hot feeling in your chest, and with shaking hands you pick up your phone to call Kanaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Yonkers by Tyler, the Creator  
> Notes:  
> This chapter was kind of long, sorry!!  
> The weather forecast for the next chapter is Angst with a light shower of character backstory, stay tuned!  
> I stand by my reasoning for not doing pesterlogs, because the colored text isn't super easy to read, so im sorry if that's disappointing  
> I'm probably going to upload less frequently during the week, maybe once to twice a week, just a heads up  
> Please take every chapter title as a song recommendation, btw


	5. Known You For Some Time, It Feels Brand New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the most relaxed you’ve ever seen Karkat-- hurtling through the air-- and he’s smiling softly, serene and reposed in a way that you’ve never seen him. "
> 
> Dave is incredibly gay. There's several scenes of just astounding levels of gayness. Dave is also supremely fucked up but refuses to admit that.

There’s a sunbeam boring directly into your eyes when you wake up, your laptop still open on your chest and your Chemistry textbook kicked to the side, joining its’ fallen comrades on the floor. You roll over and see that your roommate is gone. No news there, the dumbass is taking a 7am organic chemistry class, like a masochist or some shit. 

You roll out of bed and rub your eyes, quickly realising that you’ve knocked your shades off in your sleep. That’s why every light feels like it’s acid in your eyes. 

You pull them on but not before you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look like shit. You don’t care. You take a picture of yourself, not caring. You call it  _ Dave doesn’t care.  _ You tell yourself it’s not a lie. 

When you were younger, after you got your first camera from your friend who lived in Washington and lives ten feet away from you now and you figured out that if you took a picture of it, it hurt less or maybe you could just store it away and pretend you took the pain with it, you learned about light levels. Most digital cameras automatically adjusted to light levels, now, but you learned about the zones, from nine to zero, light to dark. Zone 0 was the darkest, Max Black. By shooting a few light levels higher, you could turn a dull, lifeless, void max black into a Zone 2, or Zone 3. You think maybe that doesn’t apply only to photography. 

The middle zones were safe, comfortable. Not too bright so that it became an eyesore, but not so dark that the shapes bled into each other and sank into the inky velvet and turned the otherwise beautiful photograph into a void on paper. But they could be boring. You weren’t raised to trade safety for interest. Is that good? You think so. When the darks are deeper, the lights seem brighter by comparison. 

Walking out of your dorm hall and on the campus, you’re surrounded by people. Your hands itch to take a picture of something, to catalogue the moment so instead of a boy walking by himself you’re somebody with a camera. 

You think about Karkat and you want to ask him to take his picture. It’s dumb, and from how he blew up at you, it’s probably not going to come to fruition. But, you have his phone number… 

Should you call? What’s the protocol for “you’re really pretty and I would love an excuse to look at your face for like thirty straight minutes”? E-mail? Carrier pigeon? Telegram? Text? 

You hate phone calls. Not being able to tell what the person on the end of the line is really thinking freaks you out more than you’d like to admit. 

So you shoot Karkat a text. 

 

**hey karkat**

**kitkat**

**my dude**

**wld it be okay if i took ur picture some time**

**like while youre doing that crazy acrobat shit**

 

You take a picture of your feet, red Converse against the grey of the pavement, and call it  _ thinking about a pretty boy.  _

 

\-------------------------------------------

“You’re overreacting. Or, perhaps, reacting with an appropriate amount of horror and, or, disgust, but letting it take over. Calm down, Karkat.” Kanaya says, adjusting her phone so you can look her in the eyes. Her voice is tinny through your speakers, different from here usual deep alto that runs like honey through your ears. She’s in the process of washing her hair-- you could tell it was time because she usually wears a gele when it’s getting close to wash day-- and half of her shoulder-length, kinky black hair is up in twists, as she’s in the process of completing the style. 

“Kanaya I… I don’t know how I’m  _ supposed  _ to react to this! What do you do when you find out the shittiest possible secret the guy you just met and maybe want to become friends with has? Do I tell him? Do I not?” You’re not panicking. You’re  _ not _ . You’re just a little bit on edge, perfectly reasonable in this scenario.

“Hey. Look at me, yes? It will be okay. And, to answer your question, no. Don’t bring it up. I know you well enough to realize that there’s no way in hell that you would handle that situation delicately.” 

You nod, and she can probably still see the tension in your jaw and shoulders, because she smiles at you and says, “now that that’s settled, want to watch  _ Project Runway  _ with me while I finish this twist-out?” 

You say, hell yes, because obviously, and settle down to chat with your best friend and, in the words of Tim Gunn, make it work. 

 

\-----------------------------------------

It’s been five hours. 

Why isn’t Karkat texting you back? 

Maybe you messed up. Maybe you missed some social cue that says wait until after the first date to ask to take pictures featuring those fucking amazing back muscles-- you mean, amazing acrobatic skills or whatever. Wait, date? There’s no dates happening here, you and Karkat are bros. Super chill bros. Except that he’s not returning your texts. 

You run a hand through your dreads, wincing as you snag some hair-- you really need to ask Rose to retwist the roots soon-- and focus on what’s out your window. Green trees and grass-- all watered by environmentally concerning sprinkler systems in the boiling Houston summer to ward off browning-- are occasionally broken up by a bench or sidewalk, or, less frequently at 2am, student. You take a picture of the way the phone lines look against the moonlight and wonder if you should have called him. 

 

There’s a distinct grating buzz as your phone vibrates against the wood of your desk, making it rattle. You don’t let yourself get excited; how stupid would it be for you to be ecstatic over a boy you’d met three days ago? You do, however, lean over to grab it as quickly as possible, checking the screen to see what it was-- a Twitter notification. You’re not disappointed, really. The sensation in your stomach, like it’s dropping and bringing your heart down with it isn’t from sadness, you’re probably just tired.  

As you’re contemplating, your phone buzzes again, in your hand.

 

**Pretty Boy: IM PRACTICING IN THE SAME SPOT AS LAST TIME IF YOURE FREE IN AN HOUR**

 

You don’t even think about your reply before you respond in the affirmative. The drive is only about thirty minutes, but you start grabbing your camera equipment and putting it together right away. 

 

\-------------------------

You’re warming up as Dave walks through the doors holding a camera, doing pull-ups on one of the outcropping pieces of equipment. 

He just stands there for a minute, what feels like several hundred, staring at you. You have absolutely no idea why, it’s not like you’re much to look at at  _ all _ , but you can feel his eyes trace your shoulders and biceps, lingering for a minute too long to be a glance at your chest where your shirt sticks to your warm brown skin. You can’t tell exactly, where he’s looking-- he’s still wearing the same aviators as always, so opaque they completely obscure his eyes, and leave you feeling strangely vulnerable, like you’re being viewed objectively by some kind of extraterrestrial, maybe not an alien but something ethereal, angelic.  But you can  _ feel  _ the way his eyes roam over you, leaving a warm, tickling sensation, like you’re buzzing. It’s almost alluring. 

He speaks, breaking the silence in his soft baritone, still not meeting your eyes-- like he can, with those fucking glasses. 

“So, uh. I brought my camera but, like, I want it to be like, candid-- don’t pose or anything? Not that I’m assuming I’m important enough to interrupt your thing or anything but like, just do your thing and I can take some pictures?” He trails off his sentence with a question, like he’s still not quite sure he should be here. You wonder what the deal is-- is he still mad at you? 

You smile, nod, and stretch your arms to relax them before you start, and, after climbing up to a medium-height platform and chalking up your hands, lean forward and let your thoughts slide away as you drop through the air and let gravity override your agency. 

 

\---------------------------

 

Karkat readjusts his grip on the trapeze bar and inhales, exhales,  _ soars _ . He’s falling, down and up again in a parabolic arc. You don’t know exactly what to name the motion-- you’ve never been good with words, and left that to your sister-- but it’s an arc of falling that seems to stop time as he reaches the apex and falls, down, up, again. 

Is he falling or is he flying? 

He uses the momentum to swing his legs over his head one, two, three times-- you see him grin, satisfied, at the movement, and you snap a picture of the way his hair seems suspended in the air as he reaches the top point, just before he falls again. 

This is the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him-- hurtling through the air-- and he’s  _ smiling  _ softly, serene and reposed in a way that you’ve never seen him. 

Also, he’s wearing a tank top and when he moves the hem slides up so that you can see his abs. Holy shit. 

He lets go of the bar mid-swing and you take a picture of him as he falls and grabs onto another one, arms outstretched like he’s floating on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and you think he looks like an angel. 

You take a picture as he’s upside-down, with his toes pointed towards the high ceiling and a beam of sunlight illuminating the high points of his face. 

Another one, his legs a blur behind him as he faces you, his arms towards you, eyes closed. The only comparison you can draw is  _ angelic.  _

You take more and more, wanting to capture the way he looks right now forever. Not so you can keep it, or because you think you’re in any way deserving of that. Almost… to prove to anyone who would argue the opposite that he’s utterly perfect. You’re not sure why you’re so insistent on making Karkat realize he’s amazing, only that you can tell he doesn’t think that of himself. 

Karkat drops down onto the faded grey mat in front of you, startling you with the sudden noise enough to make you tense up and put one leg behind you to step away before you realize it’s him. You’re such a dumbass, who else could it be? George Washington? The  _ other  _ beautiful guy who was just swinging from the trapeze ten feet above your head and apparently can scale down a ladder  _ utterly silently _ ,  _ what the hell? _ Shit, that sounded like you were calling George Washington the other beautiful boy-- sorry, but wood teeth? Totally a turn off for you. You much prefer real ones. You especially prefer how Karkat’s canines are slightly pointier than average, and there’s a small freckle above his cupid’s bow. 

You jerk yourself out of your train of thought-- which is barrelling towards absurdity at two hundred miles an hour and is  _ completely  _ off the rails, both literally in that the conceived train imagery you’ve created is probably off track and metaphorically representing the way your thoughts pile up and veer off course like lemmings off a cliff. And how you’re doing it again. 

You look at Karkat. He’s breathing heavily, face flushed red and chest rising and falling slowly, and he’s looking at you but not at you, over your shoulder or maybe at the bridge of your nose like he’s afraid that you’re about to yell at him and he says “Um, was that okay?” 

You wonder how in the hell he conceived the idea that the fucking amazing shit you just witnessed was in any way inadequate and you tell him such. 

“It was fucking phenomenal, dude. Like, that’s so crazy that you can even do that in the first place, I really don’t think it’s up to me to decide if it’s good enough-- but since I have a penchant for butting in where I’m not wanted, hell yes it was. Better than okay. Don’t say that shit, man, it was cool as hell.” 

He doesn’t look convinced-- maybe that wasn’t the answer he was was expecting-- but the corners of his mouth raise slightly and he relaxes, placated in his apparent desire to satisfy you. 

He’s only six inches away from you. The air around you feels like placing your hand on the screen of an old TV, and you can see your sunglasses reflected in his pinky grey eyes. He smiles up at you, one of the aforementioned exceptionally sharp teeth poking out to bite down on his soft lower lip. Well, you think it’s soft. Or, that it would be. Not that you’d ever want to find out, just an observation. 

His eyes keep darting from your face to his bare feet on the floor to the wall and back, and he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After a minute of electric silence, he straightens up and, still not looking at you, asks if you want to watch a movie or something with him later. 

“Why not now, dude? If you’re not doing anything, I’d love to hang.” Wait, did that sound too eager? The concept of hanging out with the short gymnast is electrifying, like you’re being pulled towards him and you can’t help but to seek out any and every opportunity to get closer. 

He looks at you suddenly, blinking a couple times and says “Uh, if you want to… we can go to my place? I would say or yours, but, honestly I really need to shower,” he says, pulling a face at the end of the sentence to emphasize how much he does need to. You chuckle softly, careful to keep a straight face, not to betray how amused you are-- how happy he makes you. 

He grins back at you, and begins to exit, looking back at you to make sure you follow. The two of you walk to his car, and the sun is just beginning to set, pushing oranges and corals across the Houston sky. 

You feel happier than you have in a while. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Empty by Kevin Abstract  
> THIS TOOK SO SO LONG IM SO SORRY  
> It's finals week soon and I have AP tests coming up... :// im so sorry  
> also this is way longer than my other chapters by like. 1.4k so...  
> Would y'all prefer less frequent uploads with longer chapters, or me to update it more frequently and make the chapters shorter?  
> I PROMISE I will try to cultivate a consistent update schedule soon!  
> Also a couple actual notes:  
> \- Kanaya is described as wearing a traditional Nigerian headwrap called gele, which isn't a religious obligation and shares basically no overlap with the hijab, hence why she has it off with Karkat (who is, unfortunately A Man) and will wear her hair out later. This is a representation of my laziness, because I also wear a scarf when I want to postpone wash day  
> \- Karkat will be hit by the Angst Train in a few chapters if everything goes to plan; I'm very mean  
> \- Leave me a comment with a suggestion or something you want to see and I WILL write it in and also you might find a lizard soon which is always a bonus (disclaimer: I in no way claim to influence Fate's lizard distribution policy)


	6. And I Don't Want Your Pity/ I Just Want Somebody Near Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's different, reconciling with skeletons, I ain't know I possessed  
> I sought perfection out in ways I no longer accept  
> I understand what I neglected, times when I obsessed  
> I'm ready to confess, this fate is hard 'til I address  
> The biggest threat I'm up against is who I face in my reflection"  
> \- Brockhampton, THUG LIFE
> 
> Karkat and dave go on a date- or is it? One of them sure thinks so.

“Oh, come _on,_ dumbass! Breakfast at Tiffany’s is a _classic!_ I thought you were into movies, how have you not seen it?” You’re more than a little incredulous that the photographer hasn’t seen at least half of the movies you suggested-- all classics, by both your personal opinion and popular taste. “What kind of movies do you watch, anyways?”

He shrugs, face impassive, staring intently at the screen of your laptop and browsing Netflix. “Pretty shit. Stuff with nice cinematography, I guess. I don’t know.”

Oh, come _on._ How is that anything to go off? You sigh, and watch as he scrolls through movies, hovering your chin over his shoulder, but careful not to make contact.

“Wait, stop. That one”

He tilts his head, like he’s taken aback by your choice. “To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?” he reads out, the title sounding like a question in his mouth.

“Yeah, fucker. It’s pretty, and since that’s apparently all you care about-- but the plot’s really good too, if you can manage to wrap your head around it, that is.” There’s no bite to your words, and you think he can tell too because he relaxes more and chuckles softly.

You start the movie, and after about thirty minutes you’ve given up on trying to hover over Dave’s shoulder, and rest your chin on it, leaning onto him with most of your weight. He stiffens for a beat, startles, and then relaxes, bringing his arm around your shoulders.

“This okay?” you ask, unsure if you fucked up from the way he’d startled when you’d touched him. He makes a soft, affirmative sound, pulling you infinitesimally closer.

You feel a soft tug at the back of your head, and it takes you a second to register that he’s stroking your hair. You don’t even think he realizes, from how casual it was-- he doesn’t seem exactly capable of that level of smooth, but you appreciate it endlessly. It feels nice, his hands are cool and the jacket he’s wearing is soft against your cheek.

You continue like that for about thirty more minutes, wrapped up in the bliss of being close to each other. And it’s at that time you realize that Dave is still wearing his sunglasses. And it’s at _that_ time that your whole date goes to shit.

Is this a date? You think, maybe. You’ve got your head on his shoulder, and he’s stroking his fingers through your curls, and _none of this matters_ because even if it _was_ a date, it sure as hell won’t be now that you’ve asked, “Don’t you want to take off the glasses inside?” and he stiffens up horribly again and you move to sit up straight and now there’s twelve inches of space between you physically, and about 16 years of history between you getting to know each other

“Um...I think it was my turn to ask first, actually.” he says, and you’re confused until you remember your impromptu ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ game, if “mine” and “yours” were moderate to severe traumas and rationale behind adapted foibles.

You nod, staying silent while he thinks of a question. You can tell it’s going to be a difficult one, but you’re still hoping that he’ll go easy on you.

“Why do you wear colored contacts?”

Shit, that’s… that one hits close to home.

You can’t really explain to him a timeline of eleven years of  your childhood through adolescence and how it affected your sense of self worth. Or how it felt to be called a demon by the people around you, who were supposed to love you unconditionally. Or why you still feel the need to compulsively perform the same behaviors you did as a child, to appease the version of your mother that lives inside of you and tells you daily that you’re a freak.

Dave deserves an honest answer though.

“When I was younger,” you start, trying to push the words out of your throat and breathe at the same time, “my family was, like, very religious. I, uh, grew up in the Philippines, and so like everyone there is Catholic, and they have some, uh. Very specific beliefs about demons and evil and shit. So, a kid gets born with _red eyes_ \-- and not like, some anime shit, like a brownish red but very obviously, decidedly red-- obviously there’s gonna be some people espousing those beliefs about demons. And curses, and monsters, and sin and being an _abomination_.

“So, growing up in that would be bad enough right? But not awful. Maybe you get ‘freak’ hissed at you at school, but you get called ‘fag’ and, after you moved to America when you were eight, a slew of shit about Asian people. But, livable. Bearable, right?” You don’t know how or when you slipped into the second person. You suppose you’re trying to distance yourself from the story you’re telling Dave, to retain some of your dignity while it feels like you’re one of the animals you dissected in fifth grade science, before you started being homeschooled. Laid out in the open, with your guts pulled out of you and put into neatly labelled plastic cups.

You try to continue your explanation. Sob story? Maybe. You really hope he doesn’t pity you though. You’re stronger than that, you don’t need some Huston twink to feel sorry for your dumb ass.

“But, your mom thinks the same shit. About demons, and curses and monsters and sin and abominations. That’s what she calls you- what she called me. A fucking _abomination_ . It eats away at a kid, that kind of shit. And it sure fucked _me_ up.

“I really thought I _was_ cursed, for a while. I’d fall during training and sprain my ankle, or mess up the shoulder of my spotter, and my mother would tell me that it’s because I was cursed by a demon, that I’m not meant for anything good in life, and my brother, behind her, would just not and look down at me. And, of course I believed them. I was probably six, seven? When she died. And that was when I began to believe that I really was cursed, that I brought evil with me and sin. And I was eight when I bought some colored contacts for the first time, from this sketchy online place that was decidedly _not_ FDA approved.”

You wonder what Dave is labelling this cup in his head. You hope he doesn’t hate you after this.

“And I decided that, maybe if I hid the part of me that was a demon, I wouldn’t bring my curse to the people around me anymore.”

You move your eyes from where they’ve been looking at the dying potted plant in your apartment’s dirty, shitty kitchen, and over to Dave again, looking at his shoulder, not wanting to feel him look at your eyes through his glasses.

You swallow, take a deep breath, and say “Your turn.”

Dave fidgets for a second with one of his short dreads.

Then, gently, tentatively, he pulls off his sunglasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Nobody by Mitski  
> Notes:  
> Whew, that was kind of sad to write. Karkat really needs a hug. I feel like I made the contacts thing apparent in the beginning, but I'm not a great writer so probably not. Sorry if it came as a shock, lol.  
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Or if you didn't enjoy.  
> Give me some movie recs, also- I could not for the life of me think of a movie for them to watch that would be like. Symbolic or something.  
> Thanks yall for reading!!


	7. Guess I'm A Coward, I Just Want To Be All Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Angst  
> A continuation of the previous chapter

Your evening with Karkat had gone extremely well, at first. He drives you to his apartment, a reasonably not-shitty place downtown, and you wait and look around for about fifteen minutes while he showers and changes. There’s some (dying) plants in his kitchen, but, judging from the number of fast food containers on the table and in the trash can, that’s about all it’s used for. The fridge is scuffed, worn, and dented, with those poetry magnets decorating the front, arranged in a few, kind of funny ways, magnets cut up and spliced together to create plurals or swear words

The irony really speaks to your sense of humor, something so remarkably Dadaistic and ridiculous it's the pinnacle of comedy and ingenuity. 

There’s also several sticky notes, in a scrawled, all-caps handwriting that even if you didn’t know what Karkat’s writing looked like you’d guess was his, berating the unfortunate target audience of the reminder with a remarkable verbosity and profanity.

_GO TO THE STORE AND BUY SOY MILK, ASSHOLE! IF I HAVE TO OPEN THE FRIDGE IN SEARCH OF SOMETHING TO PUT IN A SMOOTHIE ONE MORE FUCKING TIME I WILL SKIN YOU AND PUT YOUR ORGANS IN MY MATCHA!_

You assume that someone needed to go buy groceries. Does Karkat have a roommate? You look around and notice a few other things. A pair of shoes, too big to belong to the small acrobat. Some computer science textbooks sitting on the kitchen table. A jacket far too tacky to belong to Karkat, who you’ve only seen thus far in black and grey.

Later, after Karkat’s come back, you watch a movie. He’s right-- it’s pretty. You didn’t focus on it much, too preoccupied with how soft Karkat’s hair is on your neck, and how his shampoo smells like vanilla.

You’re pretty sure this isn’t a date. You want it to be, but Karkat doesn’t seem like he thinks it is. You haven’t done any...couple stuff.

Rose would tell you that your childhood warped your perception of romance ideals and a healthy relationship. There’s a tiny Rose in your head, sitting in the Victorian replica chair she found at an estate sale and holding a clipboard, asking you about your childhood. Fuck that.

You’re forced to think about your childhood a few seconds later, though. Pulled back from the onscreen drama and the feel of Karkat’s hair beneath your fingers (when did _that_ happen?) and five years back, becoming the scared 14-year-old holding a sword with blood dripping down his face that you were, not long enough ago for comfort.

_Why do you wear the glasses? Don’t you want to take them off inside?_

You push off the question, retreating away and becoming confrontational to avoid revealing your vulnerability. You make Karkat go first, tell you why there’s always a hazy pink peeking through the storm cloud grey of his irises and a pure white ring around his pupils.

And boy does he fucking tell you. He’s pulled away into himself, shrinking away from you and you can tell it’s not the full story and you so desperately want to know more but you refuse to push him any more. There’s really only one way you can reciprocate-- answer the question that caused him such pain.

So, for the first time since a judge in court asked you to, two years ago, you pull off your sunglasses and show him your eyes.

He makes a soft, pained sound, like someone’s knocked the wind out of him and all he can do is whimper. You know how it looks to him. Originally hazel eyes gone bloodshot, years worth of repeated traumas causing blood to cover the iris, making it all a red, gory mess. The scarlet bleeds through onto the whites of your eyes in spots, mars the whole picture and gives you no vampiric plausible deniability-- you’re forced to remember every black eye, broken nose, concussion that led to your disgusting eyes.

The shades are practical too, though. The damage made you incredibly light sensitive-- looking outside on a clear sunny day, as are wont to occur in Texas, iis probably more painful than pouring concentrated sulfuric acid on your optic nerves. You don’t know, you’ve never tried that. So the glasses protect you.

They protect you from this too. Karkat’s eyes, the storm cloud gray covering red shame meeting your same shameful red and looking at you, not with pity as much as a ferocity. It’s not easy to look into his eyes, but you do so anyways, letting him stare at you for an eternity-- actually just thirty seconds.

And you feel the weight of it all push down on you, and you close your eyes tight, not to hide from Karkat, but because you trust him and you know he does you, and you fall into his arms, letting him shield you from your own memories with the promise of an explanation at a later time. And you know he’s okay with that, and you are too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is still from Nobody by Mitski  
> Notes:  
> Update 5/10/19 I changed a bit that I didn’t like cause it was cringe so yeah sorry about my abysmal prose, lol  
> This was really short, I'm sorry  
> I didn't want to drag out the angst too much before bringing the fluff, so that's coming soon too  
> Thanks for reading, please leave a comment if you enjoyed or have any suggestions!


	8. Promise I Won't Say A Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose finds out some disturbing aspects of the circus' past. 
> 
> (TW in this chapter for: referenced/implied sexual assault, referenced suicide, implied/referenced rape)

The diner bustles around you, the crowd of the lunchtime rush trickling out the door in twos and fours, chattering topics of various importance as they eat, leave, and tip insufficiently. Nepeta is sitting in front of you, across the table, eating whipped cream with a fork. The table betwixt the two of you is scuffed, scratched, and sticky. There’s years, decades probably, worth of stainage, dents, and soda spills. You brought the small girl to the establishment in order to obtain an interview— she sits, proudly, at number six on your interview list, and you bought her a mint chocolate chip milkshake in order to, hopefully, appease her into giving you personal information so you can profit off of it.

You’ve learned, for the most part, trivial information. She’s 14, an aerialist who specializes in silks, and 4’8. She continues her story, stopping occasionally to eat more whipped cream.

“So, my family moved from Venezuela when I was 10, because, like, we were all working for a circus-- I mean, my parents and older sister were, but I wasn’t cause I was a baby,” she smiles, her wide nose scrunching up and dimples popping. Her features are large and dramatic, not quite fitting her small face or frame, creating a general disjointedness that’ endearing.

“So, then, we move to Texas-- because my mom had a cousin here, and it’s a surprisingly good scene for the circus, acrobats, all that! So, I’ve been working for the Peixies family since I was ten, I think. As an aerialist-- which is super cool! It’s the best thing ever, like flying but even cooler, ‘cause not everyone can fly. But, yeah, so then we came here and I’ve been here ever since. Is that what you wanted?”

There’s a few details there you want to chase, so you ask ahead.

“You mentioned a sister? Where is she now?” You’d love a follow-up with a former performer, if possible.

As you ask, however, Nepeta starts pulling on one of her frizzy curls, looking down at the table between you. She shrinks into herself and you see her big, dark brown eyes start to get wet and shiny. What did you do, Rose.

“She’s dead.” Nepeta says, and that admission seems to open the floodgates. “She killed herself when she was sixteen and I was 11. And…. I don’t really want to talk about that, if that’s okay?”

“Of course, Nepeta. That’s completely fine. I never want you to have to talk about something you’re not comfortable with, understand?”

She nods, and she opens her posture up to you again, leaning towards you, as the two of you continue to chat about trivial things, and the itch in the back of your mind that seeks out controversy and cover-up begins to gnaw at you.

 

The next time you see Nepeta, she has a book for you. It’s bound in purple faux-leather, with scratches and marks all over it. There’s several papers that are just wedged in between the pages, that were never intended to be there in the first place. Doodles line the covers, front and back, and there’s a name you can’t quite discern written on the front in forest green sharpie marker bubble letters, rubbed away by touch and time to create an enigmatic, alluring package to one so investigatively inclined as yourself.

“It’s Meulin’s journal, from before...yeah. I haven’t read it. I wanted to wait until I was ready, and I’d rather not know now, but. You can have it! And read it and maybe it will help you!”

You’re absolutely touched by the gesture, the fact that the young girl would entrust something so special to you is heart wrenching, and you promise to bring her late sister justice and recognition, and to return the diary after the publication of your article.

Satisfied, Nepeta hugs you, and the two of you go to get ice cream.  

 

\----------------------------

_“Every day I’m tortured by belly fat and magazine covers about how to please a man-- to please him and him and him and never myself. By people who tell me to click on any link that guarantees a ten pound loss. To get on my knees if it means someone will like me more. To get on my knees if it means I’m good enough and to get a placement that means my family and my sister will succeed._

_Are my friends tortured like this too? A purrfect pretty kitty ideal being dangled in front of you like you’re a kitten and it’s yarn and you’re expected to lunge for it and to be a good little girl and do what you’re told, no matter what?_

_They aren't tortured the way I am, being a_

_I am not a virgin anymore. I want to say, so what? My mother would say, ‘so what mija? You are not your virginity, you are a human being.’_

_What does she know? Did her training also include a tall, white man coming up behind her, moving her the way she needs to bend for a maneuver, and then keeping his hands there too long, on the curve of her hip, on the small of her back? And then, later, when she was alone in her dressing room or in the studio did she too get pinned up against a wall and told to be good if you want a career, if you want your sister to be able to eat and go to school, be a good girl and do me a favor to keep your job--”_

You slam the journal shut. Shaky hands and sweaty palms and nausea in the pit of your stomach accost you, all at once. The room spins as you continue reading, and you can hear Nepeta’s cotton candy butterscotch voice in your head, reading the words like they’re hers. There’s pictures in between the pages sometimes, of Meulin, the author of these disturbing paragraphs. A short, curvy girl with long, coily black hair and warm brown skin smiles at you through a dusty Polaroid. She has the same wide nose and lips as Nepeta, but her face seems to have matured, embraced the large features and they characterize her. She has dimples, like Nepeta, and is wearing an oversized green sweater over what looks to be a glittery, iridescent leotard that you gather she wore for performances. She’s smiling boldly at the camera, making a ‘hang-ten’ gesture with her hands.

The picture is dated about six months before what you just read, and you trudge forward into the lined pages filled with round letters. What you learn is sickening. Your brain puts the info into neatly organized boxes, to categorize them the way your brother does dead bugs and rodents, with an unfeeling coldness you've worked hard to artifice.

Meulin was 16 when she died. _Killed herself,_ your brain supplies.

She was an acrobat the same as Nepeta. _Is what happened to her still happening?_

From what you can infer, she was assaulted. _Don’t let it happen again, to Nepeta, to Karkat , to Kanaya. She was forced into silence and in silence her story will live unless you do something._

She was young, too young.

_What's going on here?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Crying on the Bathroom Floor by MUNA  
> NOTES:  
> Sorry for killing Meulin I love her to bits but it had to happen and also i barely remember how she was except a bastardization of the fangirl trope, so sorry if she's in a state of postmortem out-of-character lol  
> This chapter is kind of dark... yikes  
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed and tell me what you want to see in the future!


	9. Saturday Night Kinda Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Most things in life aren’t constant. Every day, you’re surrounded by tumult and chaos and change, both positive and negative. But the one thing that never changes is the unsettling yellow of a Waffle House sign, open 24 hours."  
> Dave and Karkat have a midnight hangout sesh, it's very fluffy.

 

The sun set a few hours ago, shadows in your room lengthening as it retreated behind the horizon, leaving you with only the screen of your phone to cast a blue light on your face and the slightly broken lamp on your desk. You’re just laying on your bed, listening to some music you’re not exactly processing, too caught up in laying shirtless and trying not to overheat. Your AC unit is broken, and your roommate is out of town, so you’re resolved to melt instead of doing anything about it. 

As you’re lamenting your new future as a dashingly handsome puddle of Strider, your phone informs you that you have a text by calling you a bitch in the voice of Hannibal Buress. You thought it fit Karkat’s personality to have your phone insult you every time he sent a text-- it’s what he would have wanted. 

The phrase “you a bitch ass motherfucker” sets off a Pavlovian reaction in you, as you jolt to grab your phone and see what the boy sent you. And damn if the best part of him texting you isn’t getting to see his picture, which sends a spark of electricity through you every time you see it. Not to discount the act of talking to him either-- he’s witty and engaging, and able to both keep and put up with your dumbass tangential speech. 

 

**Pretty Boy: ARE YOU BUSY?**

**Pretty Boy: IM BORED**

**Pretty Boy: AND I WANTED TO TALK**

**Pretty Boy: OR SOMETHING**

**Pretty Boy: IDK SORRY..**

**hey dude whats up**

**do u wanna hang out**

 

Posing the question is much more difficult than your guise of uncapitalized nonchalance makes it seen. Extending an invitation feels like an admission you’re not quite ready to make, a vulnerability you can’t afford to show. And you realize that’s bullshit, yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier. 

He texts back after a minute of the bubble popping up and going away, a visual representation of the indecisive. 

 

**Pretty Boy: YEAH, SURE. ANY SUGGESTIONS?**

**yeah dude**

**there’s a cool park by me do u wanna just hang out there**

**ill drop u the location**

**Pretty Boy: COOL. SEE YOU THERE IN 15?**

**Pretty Boy: I GOTTA GET DRESSED FIRST, I’M STILL IN MY PRACTICE GEAR**

 

It’s about 11pm now, what the hell was he doing still working out? You have a sneaking suspicion that Karkat overworks himself, and you resolve to make him chill the fuck out for at least a few hours. He deserves it. 

 

You see him sitting on a bench, the light from a flickering street lamp and the hazy air making a soft halo around his curls, backlighting him in pure gold. 

As you come closer to him, he locks eyes with you through your glasses, and you realize he’s not wearing his contacts. 

His eyes are a warm, brilliant fire, rung through with scarlet. The lumpy, disorganized chaos of yours is nowhere to be seen, the red in his eyes forming a band around each pupil, bleeding through to meld the whole iris into a breathtaking amber. In your dorm room, on your desk, you have a collection of amber paperweights with bugs trapped in them, gifted to you by Rose. You understand how it must have been to die the way those bugs did, surrounded by a red-gold brilliance that snagged you into itself and suspended you there in its’ beauty. 

You’re trapped in the amber of the moment for a beat, then two, as you pull yourself away from his eyes and try to form words. 

He speaks first, his voice soft and deep. 

“I, um, didn’t put my contacts back in after I took a shower. Sorry.” 

“Bro.” you’re incredulous that he feels the need to  _ apologize,  _ but you realize that positive reinforcement is better than negative-- or, at least, the tiny Rose inside your head does. “It’s rad as hell. I like them. I knew you were cooler than gray eyes, dude. This is like, some primo shit right there. Super cool.” 

He doesn’t say anything to that, but the corners of his mouth pull up slightly and he exhales, tension you didn’t realize he was holding in his shoulders releasing. He motions to the bench next to him, and you sit by him, not holding any pretense of a distance between you, sidling up next to the smaller boy. 

You lean onto him, tilting your head back to look at the sky, and push your shades to the top of your head to look at the stars. 

There’s not many visible, what with the heavy Houston pollution and the light directly above you, but you see a few. One, closer than the others, beams a brilliant pearl in the dusty charcoal-- not clear enough to be fully black-- sky. You look at it for a minute, until it flies away, the ever-disappointing facade a helicopter takes striking again. 

You remember being a kid, looking out your 12th-story window at the sky, crisscrossed by telephone wires and cut through by high rise buildings, and wondering where the stars were. Karkat puts his head on your shoulder and you think you notice a few more. 

“When I was a kid,” he says, “the air was so smogged up in Quezon City that you couldn’t even see the airplanes go by. I always wondered where the stars went. And then, moving here, I was expecting so many and they just, weren’t there.” 

“Yeah,” you say, not really able to respond. It’s not awkward though, like you would think it would be. The silence feels comfortable, the warm summer night wrapping around the two of you as you sit together and time passes by. 

Karkat’s stomach grumbles, startling you out of your trancelike state of contentment. 

“Oh, shit, bro. Let’s go get something to eat.” 

 

Most things in life aren’t constant. Every day, you’re surrounded by tumult and chaos and change, both positive and negative. But the one thing that never changes is the unsettling yellow of a Waffle House sign, open 24 hours. 

Karkat is sitting across from you, his face open and smiling as he chuckles from a joke you just made, some asinine comment about the music playing over the stereo. You ate already, watched him absolutely destroy a huge stack of pancakes and then share french fries with you, and you’re just watching him, reveling in the quiet intimacy of the moment you’re sharing, observing the way the light from the neon sign decorating the wall washes a warm pink over his features. 

A dumb, early-2000’s pop song is playing through the radio, and you grin at him, moving your shoulders to the music and wiggling your eyebrows as he scowls. 

“Stop that, dumbass,” he growls at you, which only serves to egg you on further. You stand, and grab his hand without thinking, pulling him out of the booth and flush against your chest, and start to dance with him. 

He inhales sharply, and for a minute, you think you fucked up. But he makes a sound, a gorgeous, gleeful sound that you can only describe as a giggle, and spins you around, mouthing the words with you. 

You go on like that for several songs, the music taste of the Waffle House stereo only progressively worsening, and the amount of physical contact between the two of you growing, until he’s got his hands in yours, fingers entwined, and his forehead against yours, and you can see the flecks of crimson that fill his irises individually, see the flush of his cheeks and the slight bruising under one eye that you’ve never noticed until now, and puts a surge of white-hot anger in the pit of your stomach, until you rationalize that the most likely reason is a fall. 

He’s laughing, you’re smiling, and you spin him around, using your height as an advantage. Your reflections do the same in the glass of the window, and even watching that feels like a betrayal of the exclusivity of what you and Karkat have right now. It’s sweet, and comfortable; warm and relaxed, and for once you feel like nothing is being demanded of you. 

He’s making eye contact with you, and you don’t mind. You don’t care who sees your sanguine eyes, as long as it’s just Karkat and no one else. Your glasses lie, forgotten, on the table and you’re barely thinking about it. 

Your whole life has been punctuated by a loneliness. Living with your bro, growing up the way you did, made you invert, become solitary as a survival mechanism. Afterwards, it was because that adopted mechanism had made you so socially inept that it was easier to remain aloof. But now, you don’t feel lonely. You feel like you have a friend, and it’s probably the best realization you’ve ever had, because you know that Karkat feels that way too. Like recognizes like, and Karkat has that look in his eyes, that uncertainty and that retreat that makes you think he grew up similar to you-- he only gave you the bird’s eye view of the situation, but it’s easy to extrapolate. 

Karkat grins at you, pulling you out of your train of thought, and the beauty of his smile, of the happiness that’s radiating off of him like sunbeams, makes you start to smile too, and laugh along with him, the first time in a long time you’ve allowed yourself the luxury. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Sedona by Houndsmouth  
> Notes:  
> This is really fluffy and kind of filler, but I actually really liked writing it  
> If you liked it, leave a comment if you want!  
> Thank you guys so much for all the kudos and comments it makes me so happy to see them and read the comments!


	10. History Doesn't Repeat, But It Often Rhymes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some flashbacks about both Dave and Karkat's childhoods.   
> Rose interviews Karkat, and Dave undertakes some stealth photography.

_ Quezon City, 12 years ago _

_ You’re surrounded by stiff, black dress clothes and rigid adults that tower over you. The atmosphere is stifling, oppressive, like you’re wearing a lead blanket the way you did after you broke your arm and had to get an x-ray. Your face is streaked with tears, making your eyes even redder, bloodshot, and shiny. Earlier, you sobbed freely. You saw her, in the coffin, posed so delicately, a soft smile on her face the way it never was for you, and you wailed. And your brother came up behind you and clamped a large hand over your mouth, and gripped your arm too tight and pulled you away.  _

_ “Why would you make a scene?”  _

_ Why indeed. Why would you make a scene, have the gall to be distraught so publicly, when you’re the reason she’s dead? You know that’s what they’re thinking, looking down at you in your black hand-me-downs, the collar too tight, choking you, and your scuffed up, thrift store dress shoes and your messy hair-- curly the way no one else in your family has, and your  _ eyes.  _ Your abhorred, cursed eyes. A cursed child, a changeling. You’ve been called it all. And you believe it-- why wouldn’t you? If your grandmother says it when she sees you, giving you mother her sympathies for the burden you pose. If your schoolmates hiss it at you during lunch, leaving you alone in the corner with eyes that stand out like traffic lights and the red blinkers atop the radio towers that poke through the city skyline at night. If your brother tells you that if it hadn’t been for the stress you caused her or the weight you put in their family, she wouldn’t have died. Why wouldn’t you believe it?  _

_ 9 years ago  _

_ “Not good enough by far. Try it again”  _

_ You fall. You break a bone, you drip blood as scarlet as your vision onto the practice mats, and still you fall. He can’t seem to figure out how to make you learn.  _

_ You fall. You feel your nose snap as a hand makes contact with your face, and you splash an arc of red across the wall. Your blood sprays from you the way your emotions do, and on the same schedule as well, with every outburst earning you a slap or kick.  _

_ You fall. You cry, screaming at the sky to whatever a 12-year-old thinks God is for making you a failure. _

_ You fall. You push yourself back up onto shaky legs and bleeding hands. Eventually you stop falling, but not today.  _

\-------------------

 

You wake up with the fucking birds chirping-- loud as all hell and twice as annoying-- and the sun glaring into your eyes. But your outlook softens as you remember the night before, with Dave. You think about the way he pulled you close, so that your foreheads were touching and you could see directly into his bloodied, beautiful scarlet eyes and he could see into your strange, ugly red ones, and you feel a warmth in your chest, oft suppressed in the name of invulnerability, and you let yourself bask in that flushed light you feel, the memory of the way the pink neon lit up his face and the room around you, painting the world in the perfect warm pink of a Saturday night, and the sheer exuberance you felt dancing with him. 

You roll over, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and reach for your phone to text Dave. That’s a new reflex you’ve developed, you guess. You’re not sure why. 

You have three missed calls from the same unknown number, and one text. 

 

**It’s Rose. Dave provided me with your contact information. Is there any way you could meet me today for an interview?**

**SURE,** you text back.

It’s too early for you to function and you roll over and drift back to sleep without waiting for a response, thinking about red eyes and soft, calloused hands, with a song playing in your head you can’t quite put a name to. 

 

Later, you’re sitting on the floor of a library at Rose’s university and, in a hushed voice-- for you-- recounting your life story, simultaneously wondering how in the hell you’d agreed to do this. 

“And, it doesn’t fucking matter what led up to it, but I moved here when I was...eight or nine? I can’t remember exactly, like, a lot of when I was a kid, but yeah, we moved here from Quezon City, and moved to Maine, actually, first. Which kind of makes a lot of fucking sense, cause I sure as hell don’t talk like a Texan.”

You know how your harsh expletives and rounded vowels sound against the lazy drawl of the locals, making you stand out in your speech as well as appearance.

“It’s funny though-- the whole, sounding different thing, because when I was a kid I got made fun of for that accent too so I practiced every night to sound like I was born and raised in New England, and now that’s what makes me different.” 

It’s not exactly funny, and Rose seems to realize this too. She’s sitting across from you, wearing sweatpants and a formal blouse. She’d explained to you that she’d had a video conference this morning, but she doesn’t look too out of place amongst the handful of students in the library on a Saturday during the summer. Her eyes narrow and she presses her lips like she wants to interject, but ultimately gestures for you to continue. 

“And, I moved here after getting a job with the circus, and...yeah. Met Nepeta a few years after that, when she was like, 13, and I was 18-- like last year, I guess. She’s a great kid, but damn has she been through some shit.” 

“Speaking of,” Rose says, “do you know what events preceded her sister’s…” 

You’re blunt about it. “Death. And, yes. I know… probably more than the kid, honestly. Just from what people have told me. Did you know that the motherfucker didn’t even go to jail? Not enough evidence to convict. I can’t believe that shit…” You’re angry, yeah. You’re fucking mad, because she was a  _ child.  _ But there’s nothing you can do about it now. 

“Is he, the coach, still employed there?” Rose asks, not meeting your eyes and fiddling with the pen she’s been using to take down notes. 

“No, he didn’t. But, they didn’t exactly suddenly get more scrutinizing in their hiring practices, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Rose looks concerned by this, but doesn’t speak up on it. She averts the subject, probably in an effort to put you at ease.

“So, tell me about growing up in The Philippines?” 

And you continue to talk, brushing over the less than ideal aspects of your childhood and highlighting those that wouldn’t bring you pity. 

“Every night, I would climb up onto the roof and try to find the stars in the city sky…” 

 

\-----------------------------

_ Houston, Texas, 12 years ago _

_ The sun is beating down on the back of your neck and your hands are sweaty, shaking. Is your vision wobbly or are your hands? Maybe both. You’re being seared open by the heat and the panic bursting through your chest and the glint of your Bro’s sunglasses as he stares you down.  _

_ “Come on, little man. What’s the hold up?” he drawls, the Southern accent that seems so charming to social workers and neighbors now threatening in its slack and length, each drawn-out vowel a promise you hope he never acts on but know he will.  _

_ You don’t know what’s happening. He came home, slammed your bedroom door open and, without expression nor emotion handed you a sword. Told you to “be a real man now” and fight him. Fight him?  _

_ It’s okay, you tell yourself. It’s cool. He’s being cool-- what other parent would let their kid learn to sword fight? Not John, he always talks about how lame and overbearing his dad is.  _

_ So you push forward, borne back by blows and the sharp scratch of metal on metal, a sound you’d never be able to get out of your head.  _

_ 9 Years Ago _

_ He shouldn’t do that, your friends tell you. He shouldn’t sneak up behind you and force you to fight for survival, shouldn’t make you trade bruises and broken bones for bread and cheese to make yourself sandwiches, trade black eyes for money to get dinner.  _

_ He shouldn’t be gone right now, today making a week and a half of silence a little stiller than usual and the white-hot panic of unease in your chest that burns acidic, grow with every minute and glance at the door.  _

_ He shouldn’t do any of this. _

_ Shouldn’t force you to the ground, a blade at your throat and blood staining the asphalt. _

_ Shouldn’t leave for weeks on end to force you to fend for yourself, emptying the house of food or money.  _

_ Shouldn’t make you look at those goddamned puppets, day in and day out, the pornographic images of them appearing in inverse when you close your eyes. _

_ Shouldn’t means nothing.  _

 

\-----------------------------

The sun glares into your eyes through the viewfinder of your camera, and you shake your head and readjust. You’re trying to get pictures of Nepeta-- with consent from the small acrobat, you don’t want Karkat to murder you or, worse, stop talking to you. 

She’s talking amicably with a tall woman, who towers over her by about a foot, and you don’t know why, exactly, but her posture towards the smaller girl makes your stomach twist, and you pull out your camera again to frame the two of them. 

The woman has long, straight black hair, and she’s not skinny, per se, but composed of lithe, lean muscle like a gymnast would be. She’s the blade of a knife the same way your Bro was, sharp and cunning and ready to snap. She’s almost spidery, the shadow she’s casting behind her onto the wall giving her the appearance of another set of arms, and the way she sternly looks at Nepeta putting the girl in her web. 

She’s leaning over Nepeta, with her arms crossed, looking down at the girl and smiling, a saccharine expression that’s leaking malice through every word she says. Words you can’t catch. 

You know this posture, because you’ve been there before. She’s standing the way your Bro used to, before he would… you push away the thoughts, trying to stay focused. 

She’s talking down to Nepeta now, not angry but with a strictness, and the girl shrinks into herself, wilting with each word. 

You still can’t hear, and you convince yourself it’s none of your business, but you can’t pull your eyes away, the dread that built up from your childhood worming its’ way back into the pit of your stomach. 

Nepeta spits back a retort at the taller woman and you can feel the air change. You want to get in between them, but the best you can do is to focus on them.

The click of your shutter almost perfectly syncs up with the crack that echoes through the air as the woman backhands Nepeta, sending the girl to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is mine so yeah, no song rec this time.   
> Notes:  
> THIS TOOK FOREVER IM SO SORRY  
> It was finals week, im really the worst I'm sorry!!   
> But, it's summer now so, to the three people still reading this fic, I will be uploading more frequently!   
> Thank you to everyone who's left a comment or kudos I appreciate it endlessly!


	11. Passing the Leap: Behind the Scenes of Circus Acrobats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interview with aerialist performer Karkat Vantas about his work life and circus background.  
> ROSE LALONDE is an intern with the Chronicle for the summer. She's studying journalism and literature at Rice University.

By Rose Lalonde

As a child, acrobat Karkat Vantas would climb to the roof of his apartment and look for the stars in the nighttime sky of Quezon City, in the Philippines. Now, as an adult, he’s surrounded by stars while performing at Alternia, the internationally performing circus, one of if not the most famous shows in the United States, Canada, and several South American countries. 

The work, however, is grueling and the pay is, according to several performers, less than satisfactory, or even adequate. 

“It’s probably a 12 hour work day, most days,” said Vantas, an aerialist with Alternia who has been working there since he was just 14.

Vantas says that his work days usually consist of practice, practice, and-- you guessed it-- more practice. 

“I get up at probably 8, because I’m lazy, and then it’s workout in the morning, like cardio and stuff, and then lunch and after lunch I usually practice with the people I’m going to be working with.” 

There’s two major partners as of right now. Vantas’ catcher the person who would facilitate any flips or leaps by catching the acrobat, in this case Vantas, and a younger aerialist named Nepeta Leijon.

“There’s a lot of people who work here, because it takes a lot of work to keep something big like this going. There’s tech people, costume people, and then just the people who feed us and clean and all that. And then there’s the administration who organizes and pays us and gives us our meal vouchers.” 

Yes, meal vouchers. Performers, workers, and other Alternia employees are in a tightly run ship. 

“They kind of don’t trust us with money, I’d guess. It applies more to the like, lower...status workers. Like the ones who lift the tents and drive the trucks and clean up the trash. Really they’re the backbone of the whole operation, but the Peixes family doesn’t trust them, worried about, like, drugs and alcohol and stuff.” 

Money is a complicated factor amongst the workers of Alternia. They’re barely paid enough to get by on, and, according to Vantas, lack of attention from the law due to the migratory nature of the circus save the Peixes family from legal repercussions. 

“You’d think that...the money would be great and it would be well worth the risk, but, no. It’s a helluva lot of risk for not much reward, to be honest.” 

What’s the risk? For an acrobat at Vantas’ level, a fall could mean torn or damaged tendons, muscles, or even broken bones. At the worst end of the range, spinal damage or brain injuries. To a lesser degree, concussions, of which Vantas reported several in his medical history. 

Above all else, though, is lineage, and Vantas comes from a family of acrobats. His mother worked for a show in Quezon City, entertaining tourists with “a bastardized version of Filipino culture… through trapeze and silks,” according to Vantas, and his older brother Kankri performed for Alternia up until his parting from the organization, about three years ago. 

Vantas cites this as his reason for becoming an aerialist performer, saying that, “I never got a chance or opportunity to go to college, and this was what I’d been trained to do since, basically, birth, so it’s what I do now.”

However, don't misattribute this reason with a lack of passion. Vantas says that he loves what he does.

“It really is an act of rebellion, against gravity, human nature, whatever it may be. At least, that’s how I see it. Some people love the adrenaline rush. Some people, it scares the hell out of, but they do it for that. Some people aren’t scared-- but to me, that’s dangerous. People who don’t take it seriously are the ones who get killed. You need to know the tricks. The tricks to flying and, more importantly, the tricks to falling.” 

_ Photos by Dave Strider _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short because I wanted the article as a standalone chapter and, realistically, an article of this level of interest shouldn't be over 600 words. Brevity is the soul of writing fluff pieces in journalism.  
> thanks for reading! There's two chapters up today, because I wanted to post more than just a short article.


	12. Reverse Suicide in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s not groundbreaking. Not a revelation. There’s no fireworks or bright lights. You don’t feel like it’s an awakening. It feels right."
> 
> In advance, I'm sorry.

You’re not sure how to feel about Rose’s article. It’s well-written, sure. Within the guidelines of what the paper wanted, yes. She used your favorite picture of Karkat, too. The one where his eyes are closed and there’s a beam of sunlight across his face. You learned that there’s a trapeze move, a return, called “Angel”. He’s making the sport even more ascetic. 

It’s simultaneously too controversial for the Peixes family to enjoy, and not confrontational enough for you, when you think about the way Karkat is forced to overwork himself. Rose didn’t tell you the contents of her interview with Nepeta, simply that the information wasn’t to be written about yet, if ever, because it would incite issues with the oligarchs of Alternia. 

You just want to spend time with Karkat, honestly. 

And, you realize, you have the power to do exactly that. So you text him and ask him if he wants to hang out, and you find yourself skateboarding to his place. You take a picture of the sky, because it looks like it’s mimicking the way you feel on the inside-- a glowing, rosy flush, and notice the amber of the sun’s reflection on the water of fountains and ponds as you move. 

And, you’re at his door. You don’t even knock before he opens it, at first looking angry but then, as if he just realized it was you, breaking into a small smile. 

“Hey, douchebag,” he says, that gunpowder and gray smoke voice of his piercing to your core and making you breathe in a little too shakily for your liking. 

“Hey, asshole. What’s good.” Damn, you do sound like a douchebag. Karkat doesn’t look like he cares though. He’s still smiling at you, hopeful and happy and serene.

He’s stopped wearing contacts around you. Seeing his eyes, every time, is like the first time you saw them, that night in the park. 

Time with Karkat doesn’t exactly work the way it does for you sometimes. Normally you’re Billy Pilgrim, unstuck in time and unsure of where you’re going next. The moment moves sporadically, leaving some temporal things out of your control. Among those things were the past, the present, and the future. 

With Karkat, it’s different. You’re stuck back in the easy flow of a linear moment, and it moves gently and softly. He grounds you, ironic for someone who spends so much of his time in the air. 

You’re on his couch again, running your hand through his hair, feeling his soft curls under your fingers and his slow, relaxed breathing against your chest. There’s something asinine on the TV. Neither of you are watching, but you both need something to cut through the silence, cut through the intensity of the moment that you damn well know you’d shy away from without it. 

He shifts in your lap, humming contentedly, a song you don’t recognize, but right now in this moment it sounds more beautiful than anything you’d ever heard. 

“Dave?” his voice fills your chest like smoke, burning and soothing at the same time. 

“Yeah?” 

Your eyes lock, molten amber meeting the mirrored shield of vintage aviators and through them, bloodied iris. His lips look so soft. Everything about him, really, is soft. Not just his appearance, although you  _ really  _ like that too. He’s lean, toned muscle and hard, flat stomach, but there’s a softness to his person that peeks out from behind his brash, angry exterior persona. He can’t hide the way he feels, although he tries to and so that softness peeks out, now, in the way he runs his hand over your shoulder and the way he smiles at you, soft lips and soft eyes and a soft, soft smile, all sun breaking through dark clouds after a thunderstorm.  

And you can’t help yourself, caught so blissfully in the glowing pocket of time and space that the two of you are, from tracing your fingers from his hair down his jawline, and he breathes in, shaky and he’s facing you, all the way, almost straddling you but not quite, and, all of a sudden-- fast, too fast, but at the same time just right and, in that same way, not fast enough-- his lips meet yours. 

Soft, so soft. He’s giving you an out, you know, not pushing too hard or pulling or taking, just giving-- giving a vulnerability you know he hates to give. And so you move your hands around his shoulders, and you kiss him back. 

It’s not groundbreaking. Not a revelation. There’s no fireworks or bright lights. You don’t feel like it’s an awakening. It feels right. It feels like you, there, kissing him, is all that there’s ever been and all that there will be and at the same time it feels brand new because it is. 

Your noses bump together, and he giggles against your lips, a sound deep in his throat that makes yours feel tight and your chest feels like there’s a helium balloon in it, expanding and pushing the air out of your lungs, and he pulls away to breathe and you do the same, and this time you’re the one kissing him. 

It’s a rush, kissing Karkat. You feel the same dizzy bliss as you always do around him. Your heart is pounding from adrenaline and nerves and you realize, quietly, that this is the second time you’ve kissed someone. And that was a mistake, you also realize, because now you’re remembering the first time. 

_ You’re 12, on your bed, the dirty white walls of your room masked with posters for shitty movies and the usually stiff loneliness broken by your childhood best friend, the first friend you’d ever had over to visit and, although you didn’t know it at the time, the last. She’s kissing you, giggling as her round glasses bonk against your shades and you’re caught in a time bubble, just the two of you, and you’re not sure what to do with your hands, and she’s not either, but you’re figuring it out, the two of you. Her long, curly red brown hair is getting in your mouth, and you pull away to gasp for air and a hard hand pulls you away further.  _

_ He knows not to hit you in front of someone else, who wouldn’t understand.  _

_ And it’s later that night and he grabs your shoulder in the same spot, over the same bruise-- you know he’s doing it on purpose, activating the bone-deep ache that hurts like regret-- and shoving you against the wall and you  _ know  _ it’s gonna be so bad.  _

_ Your memories are a blur after that. Hands around your throat, bruises on your torso and your face and cracked ribs and finally, thankfully, he slams your head against the wall hard enough to knock you out.  _

“Dave...Dave?!” Karkat is gently shaking your shoulder, and you snap back to the present. You push him off, frantically, and he accepts the shove with such gentle concern in his eyes it  _ hurts _ . He’s two feet away from you now and, compared to the easy, ready closeness of earlier, he might as well be on the Southern side of the Grand Canyon, while you’re in Maine. 

There’s white-hot panic in your throat, and you scramble to your feet. 

“I-I gotta go,” you say, grabbing your jacket and your phone from the scuffed coffee table and your board from by the door, shoving it open and leaving as quickly as possible. 

The repose of the Houson sky at dusk is enviable, and you resent having to see the rich amber sky through watery red eyes as you bring the walls back up around you and head home, burned by your own tendency to self-destruct. 

\-------------------------

The apartment around you is empty, desolate. In the same way is your heart, now, after what just happened. You pull your arms around yourself and try not to cry. Box it up, hold it in. 

Was it you? It had to be. You’re not good enough, never had been. 

Box it up. 

It’s late, now. Too late to go run or to train. 

You move to call Kanaya, hoping that she could bear to deal with you, but at the last second, recede. 

You go to the bathroom and put in your contacts, then try again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reverse Suicide is a type of trapeze move.   
> Thank you for reading! Please don't be mad at me for what I just did!   
> Leave a comment if you liked it and you feel like leaving comments!


	13. Fall Down, Fall Out, Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in a few days, sure. But more can happen in a few hours if you've just made the biggest fuckup of your life.   
> Karkat gets high.   
> Rose has a master plan.   
> Dave is conflicted.   
> (See notes for trigger warnings for the chapter)

Sometimes there are days when you wake up and, in the witness of the triumphant rising sun, you feel like you could take on anything. Then there’s days where you roll out of bed at 2pm feeling like shit that someone stepped in, scraped off their shoe and onto a cracker, and then let sous vide in a dumpster of other choice aromatics like gasoline and spoiled milk. Today is not the former. 

You aren’t sick. Damn, but you wish you were. At least then you wouldn’t have to deal with the chasm inside you, like someone had used Kanaya’s antique melon baller and scooped out your insides into neat, tiny spheres. 

No, you feel shitty because last night was probably the worst of-- no, you can’t say of your life. Of this month, for sure. Even that is a surprisingly high bar (low bar? Fuck, you’re confusing yourself). 

You groan, loud and belabored and whiny, reserving to your heartbroken self the right to be petulant for just one minute. And possibly another. That is, until your roommate barges through the door to your bedroom-- without knocking-- to tell you off. He’s wearing pink and blue pajama pants that you got him for a White Elephant, which you recognize because they say “Gamer Girl” in Comic Sans and that’s about the kind of gift you’d give. It says more about him than you that he kept them though. His thick eyebrows are furrowed, and there’s an acidic fury in his eyes that matches the tensity in his posture. He grits his teeth and opens his mouth with a vengeance. Then, he meets your eyes and just stills. Maybe it was the perfectly contrite expression that in no way graced your features. More probably it was the bags under your eyes and the puffiness you know you’ve acquired from all the crying you did last night.

“Holy shit, KK, what the fuck?” He looks concerned, surprising for someone whose entire purpose in life, as far as you’ve been able to tell, is to rag on you . 

“I’m fine Sollux. Damn, nosy much? Can’t a man fucking have a minute of peace without his asshole roommate coming into your space like knocking hasn’t been introduced to him conceptually yet, which is hilarious yet characterisic for a Computer Science major, and asking him personal questions?” 

You’re hoping the acerbity of your response will annoy him enough to get him off your dick. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like it’s working. Sollux has always been a stubborn asshole. 

“Nah, dude, you need some fucking chill time. Loosen up and talk about what’s going on.”

That’s how you ended up coughing your lungs out on your other shitty best friend’s shitty couch. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Just motherfuckin’ chill out, man. Hold it in for a minute, then breathe out. It’ll get easier.” Gamzee is already fucked up, you can tell. He’s slurring his words a little more than usual, and his eyes are bloodshot. But when isn’t he?

You comply. And then you comply again when he passes something else to you. You’re not sure what it was, honestly. Some kind of glass tube?  You’ve never exactly done this before. Hence the coughing. 

You’re sitting on a pretty fucking comfortable couch, listening to some decent music and realizing how sad you are. You don’t know if it was the pot or the shitty beer that sparked the metaphorical light bulb but it sure is… hovering over your head? Huh, that’s weird. Usually you can… think better than this. 

You realize, with a silent amusement, that you’re high for the first time in your life. 

Sollux turns to you. “So, KK, wanna talk about it?” and you can’t see a reason why not. 

“So, I’m a fucking idiot.” 

“Yeah, no shit. But what’s new?” 

“No, shut up Sol. This is my thing. I met a boy, and, well… I fucked it all up.”

“How?” He’s surprisingly tacit, given his propensity to harass you. 

“I...well, to make a long fucking story short, I kissed him and didn’t realize how fucked up I am. Like, how would anyone want to date this?” You gesture weakly to yourself, not able to find the strength to move your hands as vehemently as you think the moment calls for. 

“Well, dude, just… I dunno, fuckin’ call him and apologize?” Sollux’s eyes are glazed over and you think that maybe normally you wouldn’t like this suggestion, but now it seems feasible as anything.

“Ooor,” he trails, drawing out the  _ O _ for an eternity, “you could ask him to meet in person. Yeah, do that. Call him and ask.”

What the fuck. You pull out your phone and, for the first time, call Dave Strider. 

 

\--------------------------------------

You force yourself to get out of bed by around 4 in the afternoon, which, historically, isn’t bad for you. And by bed, you mean the only moderately crusty faux suede sofa your sister found at a Goodwill three years ago that you reserve for your most malignant and deep rooted crises. 

So, you roll yourself off the sofa at a chipper 4pm to the sound of your sister’s clattering in the kitchen-- if it can be called that, due to size constraints. Doesn’t a kitchen need… a stovetop, at least? Or a wall separating it from the rest of the room. 

She has more space than you, though. Due to an orchestrated mishap of organization, Rose has no roommate, thus creating space for both a kitchenette and the couch in her room. In that kitchenette she’s making  _ so much noise, what the fuck Rose. _ You drag yourself off the couch and run a hand through your hair, assessing your situation the way you learned to do every morning as a kid.  _ Yep, we’re in that mindset now, motherfucker,  _ you think to yourself. 

You’re not tired, but you are groggy from a slow wakeup following a late night. Your head hurts. You’re still wearing the t-shirt and jeans you’d agonized over before going to see Karkat, but they’re wrinkled from you sleeping in them. And, as that thought crosses your mind, you’re reminded of the night with Karkat. 

You  _ really  _ fucked up. 

You can remember, so cleary, how very, insufferably patient Karkat was with you. The understanding that flashed through his eyes as you shoved him off of you leaving an acidic taste in the back of your mouth like old coffee, the way he looked down and kept to himself the minute you declared a desire to leave almost painful to think about. 

Rose has no patience for your tacit soliloquy. She walks over to you and shoves a mug of noodles into your hands. “Good news or bad news?” 

You don’t really think there’s a way this could get any worse. “Bad.” 

Rose laughs, a dry, quiet escape of air through her perfectly tinted lips. 

“The Peixes’ called today.”

You don’t have energy for verbal masquerade games. “And?” 

“And they read the article.” 

She’s very surprisingly silent for a very long time after that. Which is uncharacteristic. And Rose is very rarely uncharacteristic, as much as she tries to be. 

“Rose, just fucking spit it out.” You punctuate your ask by loudly slurping your noodles and sitting down, motioning for her to do the same. She complies, fluffing her hair as she sits. 

“And… they hated it. Well, hate is a strong word. They thought it was unfair towards them.” 

“Like, threatening legal action unfair? It’s just quotes, that shit won’t hold up in a libel case or anything. Hell, if anything it’s narrative.” 

“Yes, Dave. And?” 

“And...they know that,”  you realize out loud the situation that has befallen you and your sister. 

“They certainly do.” 

“So, why would they threaten it? To scare us out of another one?” 

“Precisely. Because they have something to hide.” 

“Rose, I know you want to find something big here. I know you wanna fucking, I don’t know, expose some deep injustice but it’s not always going to be Standard Oil or California school buildings or Bayler. Because it can’t. We can't just operate off an assumption that-” 

“I have their employment records.” 

Data means she found something. Rose isn’t one to shy away from doing the dirty, drudging work of shifting through spreadsheets but you’re both students and you know she’s got at least two other beats to worry about right now anyways. 

“Holy shiiiit, that must be…” 

“Yes, fucking massive,” she smiles, not softly or delicately but in a proud, carnal, bloodthirsty way-- they smirk of a woman who just found the last nail she needed to put together the IKEA casket of the Peixes’ career. 

She pulls out her laptop and shows you what she’s found to be of import. 

“I got them from the past 5 years to start. But, narrowing it down to the last three has been the most...insightful.”

“Rose, how did you even get these? They aren’t public information. There’s no way in hell they’d just let you…”

“I asked. Nicely. The secretary seemed well-meaning and confused. And unaware of the fact that I didn’t work there also. A fact I neglected to illuminate upon.” 

There’s the Rose you know. You look at her computer, with neatly highlighted tables that only include the important information. 

She takes a breath and explains. 

“So, I interviewed Nepeta the other day and it was… eye-opening.”    
She tells you about the small gymnast being coerced into staying with the circus instead of attending high school under the explanation of citizenship-- a faulty and manipulative line of reasoning-- about how she feels uncomfortable around her coaches, and about her sister. Meulin Leijon, who died at age 16 and never got to go to college the way she’d wanted to. Fuck. Rose goes on, elaborates about abuses and accounts she’s gotten through Meulin’s diary until you can’t take it anymore. 

“Stop. Rose, I… I get it, I do. It’s fucking horrible and I can’t stand to hear it.” 

She looks concerned. She does know, after all, about your… childhood, if it can be called that, and knits her neatly arched brows in concern. 

“Yes, well, I think you’ll find this interesting. Or abhorrent, depending on your scruples.” 

You know then that it’ll be the latter. 

“See these names right here? Well, those two men were employees of Alternia four years ago. Both are named in Meulin’s journal and, here’s the kicker, are still working there. Now, I have no proof, but. I’m going to be doing some more searching through criminal records and reports to see if anyone reported anything. 

“Shit.” 

“Yes, quite. I do need a… favor from you, however, Dave.” 

“Yeah?” your tone is flat, not out of annoyance but exhaustion. 

“I need you to talk to Karkat about this.”

Fuck, that’s… the last thing you need to be doing right now. Talking to the surly acrobat about anything, let alone something serious, when he probably hates you right now is about the opposite of ideal. 

“Rose, I can’t--” 

And, as you’re about to explain the whole thing to your sister, the universe, spiteful and complex and wonderful, plays a trick on you. You’d never thought very discerningly about the phrase “speak of the Devil,” but damn if you didn’t just speak into existence an interaction with the very last person you thought would make contact with you after last night. 

“Well, Dave, aren’t you going to get that?” 

Part of you is screaming that you shouldn’t care, that you don’t get to care because clearly you’re the one who left, but the part of you that’s watched Karkat self-destruct for a month is invested. That’s the part of you that won, shooed Rose out of her own room and picked up the phone. 

Karkat sounds like he’s mad. He’s talking flatly, with none of the usual wit he threw at you on the daily. 

“Dave...we need to talk.” 

In the background, there’s a low voice laughing offering Karkat something you can’t quite make out. 

“No, Gamzee, I need to-- listen, Dave. Will you meet me at the park? I promise I won’t do any more dumb shit.” 

“Yeah, sure dude.” You feign nonchalance, falling again farther into your previous patterns. 

\--------------------------

Just like the last time, the first thing you notice is his eyes. This time, however, they’re gray and glassy. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot and you hate that so intensely, the ugly, bloody streaks you always associate with yourself somehow tainting Karkat. 

The minute you step towards him you can smell the weed, and his eyes are puffy like he’s high and he’s been crying, and you feel like even more of a douche. 

You move to speak. You want to just  _ explain  _ and apologize, you really do. But, part of you hates that. There’s a small version of you that’s still 12 and pushing his friends away from him because he thinks that by being around him they’ll get hurt worse, and he’s still there influencing you. You know your Bro can’t do jack shit from prison but you? You still have the capability to fuck up Karkat even worse than you already did.  _ Maybe he’d be better off without you,  _ your childhood self supplies. 

It doesn’t matter though, because before you even get a chance to speak, Karkat stands up. 

“I’m sorry, Dave.” 

His gravel-rough voice that fills your head like what you imagine expensive liquor would taste like is softer than usual, words slurred together and there’s an added element of openness that you know isn’t the usually boxed-off Karkat but the weed talking. 

You can’t help but scoff at the apology, the absurdity of the fact that he’d be the one to apologize eliciting an appropriately ironic and nonplussed smirk, but you stop when you see him flinch almost imperceptibly. 

“It’s fine, dude.” You hold your voice still on purpose, not letting yourself do any of what you so desperately want to— go, sit next to the small gymnast and hold him the way you had the other night, dance with him to shitty pop music in a bad restaurant, just look him in the eyes and tell him everything he deserves to know. But you can’t. Because who fucking knows how many times you’d fuck up again. Hurt him, make him feel like shit the way you already have. 

“Listen, dude, we can’t… do whatever it is we’re doing right now. The kissing and all the other stuff, we just can’t. It’s not gonna work out.” Each word hurts you to say, ripping through you like the honed blade of a katana. 

Karkat takes in your words and looks wrecked. He breathes in, shallow and shaky, closes his eyes, and exhales in resignation. 

“Dave, you made me  _ happy _ . You...you were the only person who made me feel like I was fucking  _ worth something _ . And I’m sorry. I really am. I overstepped and...fuck, I sound like my brother. You don’t need a fucking speech. So, yeah, I’m sorry and if you want me to leave you the fuck alone, I will.” 

You don’t think you could stand that. Pushing Karkat away entirely feels impossible, futile in the eyes of the universe. 

“Don’t leave.” The words come out without your allowance, of their own accord. “We can still be bros, right?” 

You can’t say please. If you released that control, you’d lose the part of you holding yourself back from falling into his arms and begging him to not listen to you. You hate yourself, you really do. 

“Sure.” Karkat’s voice is tight, higher than normal, rough. 

His gray eyes meet your shades and you see him building up walls again, stronger and more resilient against you, and you hate yourself even more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to uploaddd...   
> I'm the worst, I'm sorry!   
> But, yeah, that happened; it was a lot to put in one chapter but there were ends I needed to wrap up and that's how I wanted to do it, lol.  
> Trigger warnings for drug use!   
> Let me know what you thought!! Thank you for the comments and kudos yall i had no idea i'd get this many hits im shook   
> I'm on Tumblr @evanines btw!


	14. The Melancholy Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see a young woman trying to construct a persona that makes sense out of hand-me-downs… I also see a young woman who cuts her own bangs. I see a girl who decided to take control of how she looks and chop it into her hair. I see a beautiful woman who asked me to a very personal interview but, no matter how much she wants it, won’t ask me on a date. I believe I see Rose Lalonde, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing her.”  
> Rose is a huge lesbian, Dave and Karkat are respectively angsty, and Kanaya is a good friend but ALSO a huge lesbian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about how late this is! I just really fell into a rut where I had no motivation to write, and I finally crawled out of it! We're back! And now.... a quasi-filler-angst chapter:

The tape recorder clicks, sounding off with a quiet beep. However, before you can ask the first question, you move to turn it off just as suddenly as it started. You tuck your hair behind your ear as you turn to face the woman across from you. 

She’s more beautiful than you remember-- not to say that your memory had construed her as bland or unattractive; quite the opposite in fact. Simply put, she was breathtaking. She was without her headwrap, instead wearing her tight coils out, the rich black hair barely touching her shoulders, held back by a gold filigree headband that gleamed in the warm sunlight coming through the window of her kitchen. 

Kanaya had invited you over to her apartment when you’d asked her for an interview, and you’re about to internally combust. The space where someone lives, if they’ve inhabited it long enough, becomes part of them. From the pattern of rug in the living room (black with alternating white X’s and dots that you were later informed was mud cloth from Mali) to the books on the shelves (documented runway collections from Valentino, Moschino, Dior, you name it; a surprising amount of fantasy novels; the entire _Twilight_ series in hardcover) the apartment seemed to be simply an extension of Kanaya. 

You’re in the kitchen now, seated opposite her at a dark wood table, a notebook in front of you and the tape recorder between you, reinforcing to your confused heart the barrier between interviewer and interviewee, between journalist and conflict of interest. 

“Oh, are we off the record now?” God, she’s beautiful. 

“Well, yes. I feel it… inappropriate to simply jump into what may become a very invasive line of questioning. I’d like to get to know you first, if that would be alright. I’d like to… just talk, without attempting to get anything out of it.” 

She smiles, her cherry red lip gloss drawing your attention to her mouth, her soft lips, her brilliant white teeth. 

“Drink?” 

“Heavily.” 

“No, Rose,” she chuckles softly in the back of her throat and, damn, you’ll never get used to hearing your name in that perfect mouth. “I meant, since you’re not _officially_ working, would you like to have a drink with me?” 

You’re never one to turn down anything free, least of all alcohol, so you incline your head slightly in affirmation and Kanaya pulls two wine glasses from a cabinet and pours you a glass of red. 

The taste is pleasant. That’s rare for you, a broke college student who more frequently tastes the isopropyl harshness of cheap liquor and the artificial sweet of grocery store wine. 

“So, Rose. Tell me, what do I need to know about Rose Lalonde to know her? You requested small talk, but I prefer my conversation a bit more introspective, and, if I’m not incorrect, I believe you to prefer the same.”

“What do you know about me already? I’d love to hear your assessment. It’s rare I get to discuss first impressions with those I haven’t known for long.” Maybe you just want to hear her say your name again. But the journalist inside you is curious. 

“Well, Rose. I see a journalist, yes. That’s how you want to be viewed, isn’t it? But more importantly, I can see a young woman who dresses like she’s a paradox. You’re wearing a Valentino blazer, yes, but it doesn’t fit you exactly. It was made for someone older than you. Your blouse, as well, looks as if made for an adult woman about six inches taller than you and larger in the bust. So, I see a young woman trying to construct a persona that makes sense out of hand-me-downs.” 

You swallow. You’re wearing your mother’s blazer. She gave you a box of her hand-me-downs, probably in some last-ditch effort to entice you to stay connected with her before you left for college. You’d dug them out a month prior, in need of professional clothing to wear to an interview. Looking in the mirror, with your hair up in a bun and high heels on your feet, you felt like you were looking at her. You couldn’t make yourself get rid of the clothes after that, telling yourself it was because of how expensive they’d been. 

Before you can respond, she continues. 

“I also see a young woman who cuts her own bangs. I see a girl who decided to take control of how she looks and chop it into her hair. I see a beautiful woman who asked me to a very personal interview but, no matter how much she wants it, won’t ask me on a date. I believe I see Rose Lalonde, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing her.” 

You see, for the first time, Kanaya Maryam. Sure you saw her before. You thought you’d had her figured out but you really only had an outline, scribbled to fit into your preexisting diagram of life, and she’d just burst through and shown you exactly how dazzling she could be, in all three dimensions. 

She leans towards you, over the table, traces her finger along the rim of her glass. 

“Did I get all that, Rose?” Her breath smells like rosemary. Maybe it’s her shampoo? It’s permeating the kitchen but not in a bad way, floating through the air, tinged with the longing you feel to run your hands through her hair and brush your lips against her nose, to hold her and be held. 

You make yourself inhale. You count to four, and breathe, summoning the ability to form words again. 

“I suppose I made a very nuanced first impression. Perhaps I betrayed more than I was cognizant of at the time.” 

Kanaya smiles. 

She takes your hand in hers.

Wait. What? 

Her hand is soft, the rings she’s wearing cold against your skin. 

She takes her other hand off the wine glass and moves it over the tape recorder. Her fingers are long, delicate, gentle. 

“My dear, shall we begin?” 

The tape recorder clicks, and you swallow the words you were about to say. 

“Can you, um, say and spell your full name for the record?” 

\----------------------------------

_Snip._

_Snip._

_Snip._

The shears slice through another photograph, halving the sky and splitting a tree. Nature photography, now that’s some bullshit. What were you thinking? 

You’re seated cross legged on the floor of your dorm, a stack of recently developed photographs in front of you and a pile of the pieces in your lap. 

Apparently Marilyn Monroe used to do this to pictures people took of her, but it helps you sort the good ones from the shit ones. 

Slice them up and make them unrecognizable, so you lose the attachment. Can’t be sad about losing something you ruin to the point of never being able to get it back. Or something. 

You toss a photo of the costume tent from the circus-- _Kanaya, right?_ \-- into the ‘keep’ pile. 

You cut a picture of the ground you’d used to test the settings into shards. 

You flip over a picture of you and Karkat, that you’d obviously taken the night you’d gone to Denny’s. He’s laughing, the corners of his downturned eyes crinkled and his hair more of a mess than usual. You’re stoic, as usual, but you can tell that you’d been laughing with him, face flushed and cheeks tight with a barely kept back smile. 

You slice through the middle, fabric shears leaving a zigzag line between you and Karkat. 

You can’t make yourself maul it any more, though, and force yourself to move on. 

Although developing photographs feels more comfortable to you-- maybe it’s hipster, or  archaic or pseudointellectual, but you prefer the hands-on qualities of developer and film, the quiet of a darkroom-- you can’t exactly send physical photographs to Rose to put in an article, and seeing that image of Kanaya’s studio reminded you that you need to go through your Alternia pictures. So you grab your laptop and start sorting. 

_Boring._

_Dude what the fuck were you even thinking? No one cares about this fucking tent, like what, were you catering to someone with a goddamn tent fetish?_

_Karkat looks… really pretty in this one, huh._

You send that one to Rose, against your inner monologue telling you to get rid of it. _You don’t deserve him._

There’s a few simple ones, of Kanaya and Nepeta and the Peixes family, all shark teeth and bloodthirsty grins. 

There’s one of Nepeta, upside down, suspended in midair forever by the image, the way she seems to be in real life, hair flying behind her.

And there’s the photos from that night in the tent, the stand off the girl had with her coach, and you caught the exact moment the slap had happened. 

You send the pictures to Rose and try not to think about being where Nepeta stood, neck twisted to the side, the sting burning like a fire and the ringing in your ears louder than a siren. You fail. 

 

\----------------------------------

 

Your standards are so high for what constitutes a bad day that you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve had one that makes the cut. Your life fucking sucks usually, so it really has to be exceptionally terrible to even get a chance of hitting the leaderboard. 

Today isn’t one of those days, mind you. It’s just normal shitty; you’re sore from training and hitting the gym and then more training, your head hurts from a lack of sleep and possibly a hangover, and you spilled coffee on your favorite shirt. Two days ago, however, really made the top five. Maybe an amalgamation of the past week, really. 

But none of that matters right now anyways. There’s no point lingering on shit that’s just gonna make you feel worse, but you do it anyways. Call it masochism, self loathing, or a ugly cocktail of the two that goes down like 4pm tequila and comes up as regret. Point is, the acid of that night, when Dave had pushed you away only to pull you back but keep a metaphorical yardstick between you with “no homo” written on both ends, still lingers in the back of your mind and throat. 

You’re lying on the floor of your apartment, dirty linoleum sticking to your thighs in the humidity, and Kanaya is standing over you. 

“Karkat, are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” You groan, frustrated. 

Kanaya huffs, clicking her tongue against her teeth and looking down at your prostrated form, brows furrowed and teeth worrying at her painted lip. 

“Karkat…” 

“Fine, Kan. Fucking… fine. I fucked up. I-” 

She interrupts you, cutting off the tirade you directed at yourself. 

“Karkat. Stop. I don’t want to hear that again, thank you, I’ve had quite enough the first twenty iterations. Try again.” 

“I miss him.” 

“Dave?” You don’t miss the tinge of anger to Kanaya’s voice. From her perspective, she’s only seen the part of Dave that had you puking into the toilet this morning while she rubbed gentle circles into your back and, well, you don’t exactly blame her. Beneath the weight of despair, there’s a spitfire anger; the same anger you turned on Dave ironically, jokingly, that you can’t seem to find the energy to muster. 

“Karkat?” 

“What, Kanaya? What is it this time? Can’t you just--” 

She interrupts you for the umpteenth time, breaking your words by shoving your ringing phone into your face. “It’s your boss, Karkat.” 

_Shit._  

“Uh, hey, Ms. Peixes, what’s going on?” 

The matriarch sounds tense on the phone, her sharp Jersey accent even more nasal and tinny through your speakers. 

“The _Chronicle_ released an article yesterday, about Alternia.” 

“Uh, yeah, I thought you knew. Is there-” 

“We’re not happy, Karkat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for how long it took me to upload such a mediocre chapter!  
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, or if you have any suggestions!  
> Im on tumblr @evanines too, so you can talk to me there as well!


	15. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You’re leaning against him, held in long, arms and soft flannel. He smells like cinnamon, bergamot, and a tinge of something nostalgic, musk like the sleeve of an old vinyl record, warm and inviting. You shake your head, afraid to say anything and hear your voice wobble and crack as you fight back tears. Dave moves one hand to your hair, runs his fingers through it, separating the knots with soothing motions. "
> 
> Apologies aren't exactly the Strider way, but Dave tries his best. Karkat experiences the brunt of his employers' vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the notes at the end for trigger warnings

“You’re an asshole.” 

“Well, yeah, but what’s new?” 

You can’t help but poke at Karkat’s anger even more. The comedy of his anger hasn’t depleted since you became… whatever you are now, and you’re trying your best to act like nothing happened. 

“No, I’m serious. You’re a fucking asshole.” He sounds serious, too. There’s no heightened emotion to his voice. It’s flat and quiet. That, more than any acerbity, puts a tinge of fear in your chest cavity, cold and apprehensive. It makes you stop in your tracks and listen to your friend. Wait, are you friends anymore? The distance you gouged between yourself and the acrobat feels huge. You can’t make yourself stop caring though, and you feel a sudden cold in the pit of your stomach at the barely perceptible panic in Karkat’s voice.

“Why do you say that?” 

“Tell your fucking sister to call me.”

WIth that, he hangs up, and you’re left, again, alone and confused. 

 

_ Houston, 5 Years Ago  _

_ “Rose, I just don’t know what to do.”  _

_ You can’t force the normal carefree tone into your voice. You feel hollow, tired. You haven’t slept in three days, maybe? It’s hard to keep track of time right now. It’s been too long since you’ve eaten, too long since you’ve been able to rest, too long since you’ve felt anything other than anxiety. Your voice sounds flat, defeated.  _

_ “Well, I’d recommend adding more distortion to the next comic. This one simply wasn't as eye-bleedingly asinine as the rest, and it really pulls down the portfolio as a whole.”  _

_ She’s being funny. Why is she being funny?  _

_ Can’t she tell? _

_ “Rose. No.” _

_ You can’t make yourself talk. There’s a mountain of emotion, higher than the roof of your apartment building blacking a streak out of the Houston skyline, blocking your words, stalwart in place against your futile attempts to change your life.  _

_ Somehow, though, she catches on. You can see her on your screen, her arched brows furrowing and creasing her forehead. “Dave, talk to me. What’s up?” _

_ She can’t even see your face. You’ve turned off the lights so she doesn’t have to. There’s so much bruising you can barely find a splash of brown skin under the green and purple, and your eyes are… you don’t know what caused it. Maybe the last time you got your head slammed against concrete, face first, was one too many. Maybe it was the black eyes. Whatever the cause, something in your right eye popped. You felt it as it happened, felt the hot liquid run down your face and saw your vision blur red. He didn’t stop. He hit you again, on the other side of your head, until even through your addled vision, you could make out the crimson splatters, bright on the blistering hot, gunmetal gray of the roof.  _

_ “Rose. What did you say your mom did again?”  _

_ Your friend looks apprehensive, not totally understanding. “She’s a lawyer, Dave. Why does that--”  _

_ “Can you… call her for me?”  _

_ “Dave-”  _

_ You hang up, watching the confusion grow on your friend’s face before the window closes.  _

 

Maybe the similarity of Karkat’s mannerisms to yours that day made you suspicious. The edge to his voice that was almost a plea, the crisis eminent in his tone. Maybe it was empathy, or the stupid crush you still had on him. Apologies have never been the Strider way--  _ did Bro ever apologize to you, even once? _ \-- but you feel compelled to act. 

Whatever it was, it had you at his apartment in twenty minutes, fist raised mid-knock as the door was yanked open by someone who you’d never seen before. 

There’s a guy who looks like he’s the same age as you, slightly taller, slouched posture and crossed arms making him seem smaller than he is. He’s got messy hair that skews in almost every angle, a rat’s nest so impressive that, were there such a construction as a rodent version of MTV, a hip-hop artist rat would most definitely invite them to his crib. The weirdest part, though, is his glasses. He’s wearing red and blue old school 3D glasses, the cardboard encasing the lenses old and creased. 

He opens his mouth to speak to you and you can see that he’s got a case of the most insane braces you’ve ever seen, and when he speaks, the lisp is so intense it’s almost comical, but you quickly draw the correlation. 

“Who in the everloving fuck are you and, one other thing, what in the goddamn FUCK time do you think it is?” 

“Dude, I can explain, just… where’s Karkat? Can I talk to him?” 

A wave of understanding passes over this guy’s face and, although you have no idea what he’s just understood, he smirks at you. 

“KK’s not home. He’s training, or something.” 

Wait, didn’t this guy  _ just  _ emphasize the time? Namely, how fucking early it was? 

“It’s 5am.” 

“Yeah, you think that’d stop him? He’s in his usual spot, by all means go ahead and try to talk him down.” 

You  _ really  _ don’t like that word choice. In this moment, though, it seems like it could be accurate. And so you immediately turn around and get in your (Rose’s) car, more serious than you thought you could ever be. 

 

He’s exactly where you thought he’d be, flying through the air towards the ground, arms extended to grab the bar in front of him. Every time you see him like this you get caught up watching him, pulled in and frozen in place until you shake yourself out of it. 

He sees you, that much is clear. You can see his eyes widen as soon as he spots you and swings onto the platform, climbing down the ladder as quickly as you’ve ever seen anyone climb a ladder. 

“Dave? What’s-” 

You cut him off. You don’t mean to, but as soon as he comes close enough into the light, an involuntary gasp chokes its’ way out of your throat. 

“Karkat. I- I mean- I- you- your- what  _ happened? _ ” 

You recall that night, in the diner, when you saw the bruise around his eye and chalked it up to a fall. 

The mottled port wine and indigo on his shoulder and what you can see of his ribs through the tank top he wears are probably from impact with the hard dirt of the arena floor. 

The way he’s holding his arm like he’s afraid to move it, you think, could be a normal acrobatics injury. 

But his face? No matter how creative or contorted the fall, there’s no way the ground could have made the bruise that mars his warm brown skin, covers half of his face, shaped like a handprint. 

The sight of it, of Karkat  _ hurt _ , stabs a sliver of ice right between your ribs that snakes around your heart, and pushes a shaky breath out of your lungs. 

You reach out your hand to-- touch his face? Pull him closer to you and hold him? You don’t know. You don’t do any of that, can’t, and so your hand just hovers in the air between the two of you. 

As if cued by the sudden outreach, Karkat  _ breaks _ . His hands fall out of the clenched fists he held them in and begin to shake, a slow, weary tremor matched by the movement of his shoulders as he slumps over, barely held up by his own legs. 

And you breach the gap. You step forward and pull him towards you and at the same time he falls into you; you just hold him and you hope he feels held by you and you both stand there, in silence, under the eyes of the rapidly fading moon and the rising sun, and no one else.

 

\--------------------------------

There’s a fire slowly eating through your left arm, shooting subcutaneous lightning when you move it. The ceiling is blurry, moving gently in waves like the stripes above you are breathing, softly, and you feel serene for a minute, laying against the ground. Then a harsh voice breaks your respite. 

“Again.” 

Your silence is an affront, clearly, as, instead of waiting for you to drag yourself up with one arm and stand, the man before you walks over, takes a fistful of your shirt, and pulls you up, in no way attempting to spare your throbbing head, ribs, shoulder, or forearm. 

He’s taller than you--  _ who isn’t _ \-- and uses that height to his advantage, pushing you around and towering over you. Your wrist already has a ring of purple that marks where he dragged you here, after your conversation with Ms. Peixes, and you’re worried that, at this rate, he might surpass the floor in the ‘damage done to Karkat’ race.  

You sway, where you’re standing, but blink away the motion and resolutely, maybe even recklessly, walk forward, climb the ladder, try again.

You fall-- not out of ineptitude, or for lack of trying. You’d been at this for, what, five hours? They called you in at midnight, and the faintest washes of sunlight are now building up in the air. 

Your trainer looks down at you dismissively. 

“Pathetic.” 

You can’t help but bite back, anger and pain and exhaustion bringing out the most impulsive side of you.    
“Fuck you, Jack.” 

You cough, and notice faintly that you might have left some blood on the ground, dark red mixing with the dirt and creating a thick slurry. 

You know as soon as the words hit his back, as he turns to move away from you, that you made a mistake. The air chills, encapsulating you in ice, and you register the sound of his hand making contact with your cheek before you feel the pain. You’re pushed backwards by the momentum, falling from your knees onto your chest. 

Jack reached a hand towards you as if you help you up, and you instinctively move to meet him. He grabs a fistful of your hair, though, and yanks your head back so that you’re forced to make eye contact with him. 

It’s chilling, the cold, contemplative anger in his eyes. Makes you feel like it wasn’t you who incited it or created it; you just happened to be the sorry fuck who was here now when it all came to apotheosis. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, which is irritating to you for some reason.

“Take a picture, motherfucker, it’ll last longer,” you spit out at him, your words leaving a spray of thin red on his cheek and a fire in his eyes. 

He doesn’t take your bait though, which is almost worse. If you get him angrier, he’ll get reckless-- his hits won’t land as strong, he’ll be more focused on making contact with  _ something  _ than anything important, and you end up better off. This? This feels like rage, like calculated, vindictive loathing. You haven’t seen that since the night your mother-- 

“You’re useless,” Jack snarls. “Pathetic. Can’t pull off a simple maneuver, can’t keep control of the kid like you were supposed to, can’t land on your feet, can’t keep your  _ goddamn mouth shut. _ ”

He punctuates the last item in the list by shoving you backwards, the small rocks in the dirt digging into your shoulder blades. Your lungs feel hollow, the air pushed out of them by the impact. You feel powerless, gasping for air and indescribably  _ small  _ under his gaze. You want to snark back again, rile him up-- maybe, deep down, a part of you thinks you deserve it-- but you can’t even breathe. You try, but he’s already walking away, shoulders back, head held high. 

So you push yourself up on aching arms and shaky legs, and you force yourself up the ladder. And you try it again. 

 

\--------------------------------

 

“Karkat?” 

His voice is soft, gentle. When you were a kid, once, you found a baby deer in the woods outside your home in Maine. You remember its’ shaky legs, the panic in its’ eyes. You remember talking to it softly, so as not to scare it, the way Dave is talking to you now.

You’re leaning against him, held in long, arms and soft flannel. He smells like cinnamon, bergamot, and a tinge of something nostalgic, musk like the sleeve of an old vinyl record, warm and inviting. You shake your head, afraid to say anything and hear your voice wobble and crack as you fight back tears. Dave moves one hand to your hair, runs his fingers through it, separating the knots with soothing motions. You close your eyes, allow yourself to breathe. 

He says your name again, to no avail. 

“Okay, fuck this,” he mutters under his breath. 

Then, to you: “Hey ‘Kat, wanna get out of here?” 

An escape is exactly what you need. You nod mutely, and he doesn’t take his arms off you, instead moving to hold you as you lean against him, and walk together to a silver Volkswagen beetle that you suspect doesn’t belong to him. 

Apologies have never been your strength, but you can sense one in the way Strider supports your weight, his hands still so gentle, his eyes-- eyes, you've just realized, that are uncovered by tinted plastic-- looking at you with such tenderness. It's not pity, per se, but a feeling you can’t exactly identify, that you don’t think you’ve seen someone look at you with before. You feel comfortable looking in those eyes, though. Safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, depictions of child abuse, eye gore/body horror, verbal/emotional abuse   
> Notes:   
> This is so incredibly late I'm sorry! I had a lot going on and I still do, so updates will be sporadic until the end of this fic. I'm anticipating five more chapters at the most, depending on what I add and take away in the (admittedly, minimal at best) editing process. Thank you so much for reading, please leave a comment if you want, they're what keeps me writing!


	16. Long Way Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t keep feeling like I can’t tell anyone. You especially. You’re too important.”
> 
> Dave takes Karkat home. They talk. Kanaya harbors a grudge. Rose violates some HIPAA laws.

Dave Strider runs long fingers through your hair as you lay with your head in his lap. Dave Strider, the man you met a month ago by physically knocking over and who rejected you twice, has you cradled on his lap, holding you close. 

He’s humming, a melody you can’t parse well enough to recognize. You decide you have to break the short nonverbal spell that your encounter with Jack ushered in. 

“Dave?” 

He blinks as your voice, cracked and quiet from disuse and tears, cuts through the comfortable silence around you. 

“Yeah dude? How are you feeling? Is the ice helping, it helps me usually, or, I mean, it used to when I had to deal with my Bro. Do you want me to call someone, or… I can call Kanaya! Sollux left as soon as I brought you here, so we’re all alone.” 

“Sollux left?” 

“Yeah.” Dave furrows his brows slightly, digs one of his canines into his bottom lip. “Seems like kind of a dick move to me, honestly. I just brought you back here and he got the hell out like, immediately.” 

You bring your hand up to cup the side of his face, stopping his rambling immediately. 

“No, he was… as much as I hate to admit it, and I really fucking do, he was being a pretty good friend. I really hate people seeing me like this, and he knows that.” 

“Like what? Does this happen often?” His voice is steely. 

“No, not like that! Just, you know.” 

“I don’t really,” he says, incredulously. You can’t tell, but he seems suspicious of something. You don’t know what. You feel compelled to tell him what he needs to hear though, to alleviate his fears. 

“Being vulnerable, I guess.” 

“Yeah, I… I get that.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, just continues to run his fingers through your hair as you lean against him. You’ve sat up, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away from him. 

There’s something nagging at you, a voice in the back of your subconscious that sounds a lot like Dave.

_ “When I had to deal with my Bro” _

_ The picture of Dave, shaking and skinny and scarred, dried blood coating his knuckles, rivulets of it pouring from a gash on his hairline.  _

“Dave?”

“Yeah, ‘Kat?” 

“Who’s your Bro?” As you ask, he stiffens, the same way he did when you asked about the glasses. In that moment, you’re almost positive he’s going to get up and leave you, but he doesn’t. He breathes in, chest rising and falling as he audibly exhales, and he relaxes against you. 

“He’s, he  _ was _ my guardian. My dad, but he always made me call him Bro. I’m not sure why. My therapist has some theories but I don’t really care why he did any of what he did.”

You start to say something, but he keeps talking over you, the words coming out forcefully, like he’s finally breached the walls surrounding his psyche and the flood is just beginning. 

“For a while I thought he was a good dad. Like, I thought he was cool. God, he trained me so fucking well. He’d make me fight him, on the roof of our apartment building. I still remember how it felt to stand up there with the sun in my eyes, trying to watch all the sides to see him. He always caught me off guard, every time. He didn’t give a fuck-- well, about anything. Ain’t care that I was a fucking kid, that I was starving ‘cause he didn’t feed me. That I went to school scared and bruised. I got good at hiding it though. My first grade teacher called him once ‘cause I didn’t have a lunch. I still remember that night. It was the first time he gave me a sword, made me fight him one on one. He called it something else, though. My therapist says to let go of the word and not use it. Says it puts me on his terms or something. Fuck, sorry ‘Kat. I’m rambling.” 

You shake your head slightly and move your hand in small circles on his shoulder. 

“You’re fine. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“I can’t keep feeling like I can’t tell anyone. You especially. You’re too important,” he says. You shift to pull your arms around him, to hold him, but the motion shoots a white-hot streak of agony down your ribcage, freezing you in place and pushing air from your lungs in an involuntary gasp of pain. 

He notices. Of course he sees, he’s had his eye trained on you like a hawk ever since he saw you in the tent. 

“Karkat?”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse.” 

The comment slips out before you realize who you’re talking to. Kanaya would have given you a tacit nod, understanding. She knew you’d had worse, had to clean up after it. Nepeta too. 

Dave, however, seems altogether too concerned about your injuries.    
“We should go to the hospital, ‘Kat.” 

He’s held off from asking the obvious for longer than you expected, but you know he’s longing to ask, to know. 

“And tell them what, my boss told one of their friends to beat me up?” That, too, slips out before you really think about the implications. Dave doesn’t even bat an eye. You can see him strategizing, compartmentalizing. 

“Fine. Who can we call. You’re not okay, dude. Your face is fucked, no offense, and your ribs are probably bro--” 

“They’re bruised. Broken hurts different. Call Kanaya, use my phone.” Despite your best efforts to hide it, you’re in a lot of pain. There’s something very wrong with your left arm, you can feel it eating through your skin, a sticky, acidic pain making your brain struggle to process what’s happening around you. 

“I need to, um. Sleep.” 

  


\--------------------------------

“Karkat? What’s going on? Do you know what time it is?” 

“It’s Dave. Karkat’s hurt? I thought he was fine, just freaked out, but he just passed out. There’s something wrong with his ribs, I think.” 

You can't get the words out fast enough, forcing yourself to breathe at the end of each sentence feels like a Sisyphean chore, every time you fill your lungs with air it’s gone and you’re left gasping, panicked and alone in Karkat’s apartment.

“Where are you.” Her voice is sharp, focused.    
“His place? He told me to call you, can--” 

“Dave, listen to me. Calm down, you’re not helping Karkat like this. He will be fine. I’m five minutes out.” 

  


The wait is agony. You can’t do much save pace the floor, refusing to take your eyes off your friend. Finally there’s a soft rap on the door, and you go to let Kanaya in. 

She’s more disheveled looking than you’ve ever seen her before. Her hair, which you’ve only seen intricately wrapped or in neat coils, is pulled back in a bun, and she’s wearing leggings and a hoodie, a stark contrast to her usual attire. She drops the backpack she’s carrying next to the couch and gently shakes Karkat’s shoulder.

“Come on, Karkat. Let’s wake up, yeah, there we go. Good job.” 

He blinks slowly up at her from where he’s laying. The swelling around his eye probably makes it hard; you notice how terrible the bruising on his face looks in the harsh light of the apartment. So does Kanaya. 

“Karkat, you look like shit.” 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know. Gonna need some good foundation for next week.” 

“Let’s look at what you’ve got going on before we think about the performance, alright?” 

He nods, and sits up with a grimace. Kanaya stands in front of him, tilting his chin back and forth gingerly to see his face. 

“They really did a number on you, huh?”

“Just Jack,” he murmurs. Who the hell is Jack? You tamp down your anger, it’s not helpful. Rose was the same way to you, before...before everything. 

You look back over at the two of them. Kanaya is focused on Karkat’s left arm. She touches it cautiously and he flinches, a violent, full-body affair that startles his friend as she looks at him with building concern. 

You’re sick of standing in the corner and not helping, and so you walk over. Karkat’s face is twisted in pain, in a way that makes your heart pang to watch, as Kanaya moves his arm. 

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“Hell, no. I can’t”

“ _ Karkat.  _ Look, it’s clearly broken.”

“I  _ can’t.  _ You know I can’t.” 

Kanaya turns, looks at you with a start, like she’d forgotten you were there. 

“Dave… I appreciate your help, I really do. But I think it may be time for you to go.” 

Her voice is cold, steely. She obviously doesn’t trust you or want you there. Karkat’s told her what you did, you’re sure, so you can’t exactly blame her. The guilt still fills you up whenever you think about him, a rancid feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

“Um, yeah, okay. That’s probably a good idea.” You turn to your friend, still laying on the couch. “Bye, ‘Kat. Text me, later?” 

He nods weakly before closing his eyes and leaning his head back against a throw pillow. 

  


The sun lingers in the horizon as you exit Karkat’s apartment and drive home, coloring the sky amber and gold. You call Rose with shaky hands, relying on her to appease your anxiety. Something Karkat said is lingering with you, resonating against the part of you that was scared and twelve once, lying to your friends and using drugstore concealer to cover black eyes before a Skype call. 

_ I’ve had worse. _

_ Tell them what, my boss told one of their friends to beat me up?  _

“Dave? Dave, are you there?” It’s Rose. You realize she answered the phone at some point, and you’ve been sitting, silent. 

“Yeah. Hey, Rose? Can you do me a favor?” 

“Yes, probably. What is it?” 

“You know how you said you got their employee records and stuff? Cross-check Karkat’s medical stuff, if you can find it. Like history of injuries, stuff like that.”   
“I’m pretty sure that Alternia has to record those things, yeah. I’ll look into it, but it might take a bit. Slogging through data is never fun, and what they sent me, my God. It’s not pretty, Dave.” 

“Okay. Um, just let me know.”

“Are you okay?” 

Only Rose would be able to detect the minute tremor in your voice. You’ve lost some of the skills you once had at masking you emotion, but you’re still, overall, stoic, unmoving. You don’t know if that’s good or not. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You also haven’t gotten much better at telling the truth. 

“You know you can talk to me if-” 

You hang up. You’re not ready to talk. Not ready for a lot of things, really. 

The houses blur by and Karkat’s face, twisted in pain and so, so sad, stays in your mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting I'm so, so sorry this took so long to get out!! School has been crazy, life has been even crazier somehow.  
> What did you guys think?   
> Please comment if you liked! Constructive crit is appreciated!


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